In His Shadow
by The Sherlocked Phan of Bag End
Summary: When Lucie, a mysterious young woman with a complex history turns up on the doorstep of 221B with a note from her dying father requesting Sherlock's help, John and Sherlock are plunged into a dark world of murder, deception...and romance. Can John, the constantly overlooked sidekick, reach the heart of a woman instead of always being in Sherlock's shadow? John/OC
1. The Mysterious Visitor

**1: The Mysterious Visitor**

"Sherlock, I swear, if I hear that damn violin one more time tonight, I will rip it out of your hands and shoot a hole clean through the middle of it." Sherlock looked up. John had his head stuck round the doorframe of their living and was staring daggers at him. He had clearly been trying to get some sleep, but the way his eyes were alert showed that he had clearly been failing. John raked his hand through his hair in frustration, as Sherlock noted he often did.

Sherlock merely smirked and raised the bow to the strings once more. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John cross over towards him, and he looked up innocently.

"Is there a problem?" he asked simply. John just glared at him even harder, and made a move over towards their bureau. Still Sherlock didn't flinch. John opened one of the drawers and drew out his gun. Sherlock just looked up with raised eyebrows, an amused expression on his face.

"Really, John? I thought you, of all people, would be able to settle disputes in a more mature way than blasting a hole through the offending article. If I did that, I fear most of my associates would be walking around with a hole in their stomach." He tipped his head to one side. "Perhaps it may be an improvement for some of them. Anderson, particularly…" John narrowed his eyes at him and walked over so he was stood right in front of Sherlock.

"But your associates aren't violins, Sherlock. If you shoot a hole in them, you can't go out and buy a new one. On the other hand, that is the wonderful advantage of a violin. An innocent, inanimate object that can easily be replaced." John pulled the safety trigger and aimed it at the violin. Sherlock thought about John's little speech for a moment, and was about to make a sarcastic comment about the idea that there was most probably a shop that supplied replacement Andersons, but John got there first.

"Oh no you don't," he said, and with that he pulled the trigger on his gun, producing a loud crack, and Sherlock watched nonchalantly as the violin skittered across the floor, now with a large smoking hole straight through the middle of it. John put the gun casually back in the drawer and shut it.

"Told you." Sherlock just looked unimpressed.

"And you think I'm so unprepared as to only have one violin," he said scathingly, crossing the room and opening a panel in the fireplace. He reached in and produced another violin case. John groaned. He firmly removed the case from Sherlock's hands, grabbed hold of his shoulders in an iron hold and marched him to his bedroom. Once there, John shoved him down so that he was sitting on his bed and began to leave the room.

"Right!" he said, picking up the key to Sherlock's room that lay on the top of his cabinet. He pointed it at him. "This is coming with me tonight. You will stay in here and get some sleep, or at least stay quiet. Meanwhile, this key will not leave my sight all night, and I will have a peaceful night's sleep. Good night, Mr Holmes." John turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him, and Sherlock heard the click of the key turning in the lock. He sighed. Now what the hell was he supposed to do all night? He slowly lay back on top of Mrs Hudson's flowery duvet and stared at the ivory ceiling. Perhaps, just this once, he would do as John told him and try and get a little bit of sleep. He was tired, no matter how much he tried to convince John otherwise. Whatever happened, he doubted John would. He'd be paranoid about Sherlock escaping and playing a trick on him.

Sherlock smiled and sat up again. Perhaps he could fool John into thinking that he'd escaped, but instead be dutifully in his room all night. What fun it would be to wind John up in such a fashion. He sprang up from the bed and made a great show of banging around with the door. Finally, he swore loudly and fiddled with the skylight in the ceiling, again with a great deal of noise. He opened it (loudly) and made to climb out. Finally, he fell silent, and knew that John would assume he had made a break for freedom. Sure enough, he heard John's angry voice through the wall.

"Sherlock! Dammit!" he yelled, and Sherlock heard the shuffle of his slippers coming down towards his door. He waited. There was a pause, and he heard John curse quietly. He'd probably left the key in his room. John groaned, muttered for a while and then began to shuffle back towards his room. Sherlock smirked. Mission accomplished. Satisfied, he lay back on his bed and closed his eyes, eventually succumbing to sleep.

* * *

At the other end of Baker Street, a taxi pulled up and a young woman stumbled out. Very little could be seen of her face as she wore a red waterproof coat with the hood pulled up, although it was the middle of May and not raining. To any passer-by, her gait would indicate that she was drunk, for she swayed when she walked and tripped over frequently. She quickly slurred her thanks to the cabbie and handed him a twenty-pound note, then watched with unfocused eyes as the cab drove off. She slowly and unsteadily turned around and stumbled up to the door of the first house. After about half a minute of trying to get the door numbers to stop swimming around she could make out the gold digits reading as '100'. She sighed and slowly walked about fifty metres, checking the door of the house next to her. '167A'. Her addled brain could just make out that she was getting closer. She stumbled about an extra seventy-five metres, and checked the door again. This time, it read as '225'. She took a few unsteady steps back, keeping her eyes on the doors, and finally drew to a halt in front of the one that said '221B'. She looked hesitantly at the soiled note in her hands. This wasn't what she'd imagined. She could just about make out the black door with its gold numbers, the vertical letterbox and simple knocker. The place that had been described to her hadn't sounded like a student apartment. Once more, she double-checked the paper in her hands, and looked up at the door. As the seconds ticked by, her thoughts were becoming more and more muddled and cloudy, so she knew she didn't have much time. She took a deep breath, tried to compose herself as much as possible, tripped forward and pressed the simple silver button that served as their doorbell, praying that whoever opened the door would be quick.

* * *

Sherlock was awoken at the sound of a shrill ring. It took him a few seconds to work out what it was, but he quickly recognized it as his and John's doorbell. He heard a groan from the next room, and John stomped out. Sherlock had no choice but to stay in his room anyway.

"Sherlock! If that is you coming and waking me up at six in the morning, I'm going to kill you!" he yelled. Sherlock smirked. "What the hell do you even get out of this? Is it funny, is that it? Well, let me tell you something: it isn't damn funny for me! We're not all like you, you know! I, for one, happen to like my sleep! An undisturbed sleep!" John's voice grew distant as he went down the stairs, and as he disappeared, the analytical side of Sherlock's brain began to try and work out who was at the door. It clearly wasn't Mycroft or Lestrade: that was obvious from the pressure and length of the ring. It wasn't a particularly familiar style of bell-ringing, so he had no choice but to assume that it was a doorstep salesman or something similar, although why they were calling at 6:04am baffled him. He could still hear John shouting abuse, apparently at the Sherlock outside the door, but all of a sudden it stopped. Sherlock wondered what had caused the sudden stop to his ranting, but had no choice but sitting dutifully and waiting to see what happened. He strained his ears to try and hear any conversation, but he couldn't hear anything, so he sat on his hands and bounced on the mattress a bit. Bored. Bored, bored, bored. If only John hadn't locked him in, he could be down there opening the door, relishing the opportunity to swear at some doorstep tradesman who was crazy enough to call round this early in the morning. But he had nothing to do. Bored.

* * *

John swore he was going to kill Sherlock when he opened the front door and found him stood there smugly. He continued to yell obscenities at the door as he fumbled for the key, only pausing when he actually opened the door. The sight that met his eyes surprised him so much, he couldn't utter another syllable. In front of him stood a young woman. She had relatively tanned skin and long, glossy auburn curls, and was wrapped in an oversized red coat. John couldn't fail to admit that she was beautiful. Everything about her took his breath away. But the biggest surprise was when she lurched forward, clutching the doorway for support. John took a step back as she looked at him, her breathing shallow and inconsistent.

"Mr…Holmes?" she whispered, her words barely audible. At a first glance, John would have assumed that she was drunk, but the beads of sweat on her forehead and her shaking hands suggested otherwise. She shoved a small piece of paper at him, which he took and quickly read:

221B BAKER STREET. MR HOLMES WILL HELP YOU. HE IS A GOOD MAN. I LOVE YOU.

John looked at the note and then back at the girl; she was fading fast. He gently held her wrist and took her pulse. As he had expected, her heartbeat was dangerously slow – he could make out in a fraction of a second that there was some kind of potentially lethal sedative coursing through her veins. With the girl's vision becoming more unfocused by the second, John made a snap decision to look after her for the couple of days that she would need to recover. He quickly scooped her up in his arms, began to talk softly to her to try and keep her conscious, and carried her up the stairs to the flat as fast as he could.

* * *

Sherlock had almost resorted to try and break the door to his bedroom down with boredom, when he heard John's footsteps coming back up the stairs. He listened carefully: they were slightly heavier than normal, so perhaps be was carrying something heavy; he could just make out John talking quietly, but there was no other set of footsteps so it couldn't have been a person… A few minutes later, Sherlock heard the key turn in the lock on his door and John poked his head in. There was no trace of the man who just a short while ago had been shouting obscenities at a wooden door. No, John looked worried.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked. John turned around, looking back at their living room.

"It's a girl, Sherlock…" Sherlock looked unimpressed. "She turned up on the doorstep. She's been drugged." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, you must learn to keep your emotions in check. Just because it's a girl who appears to be drugged doesn't mean that you immediately bring her up here. It's an early Saturday morning, John. I expect there were lots of girls out on the town last night who had a few too many to drink, and fancy a bit of action. Preying on an emotional, overly sympathetic man like you…she probably couldn't believe her luck. Now take her downstairs. Order her a cab if you really want to. But I see no logic in bringing in a girl who is no different from thousands of others. I expected better from you, John." Sherlock sat back down on the bed, swung his long legs over the covers, picked up his phone from the bedside table and began to text Lestrade. John just watched him and threw the soiled note at him. Sherlock's brow furrowed as he read it and he stood up once again.

"Well this makes things more interesting…" he muttered, and made his way over to where the girl was lying, on their sofa. John looked after him helplessly. As long as he lived, he swore that he would never understand what went on in the brilliant mind of Mr Sherlock Holmes.

Following him out, he saw Sherlock kneeling at the side of the girl, checking her pulse, breathing rate…all the bog-standard diagnosis procedures.

"Drugged," Sherlock said bluntly, and John rolled his eyes. Evidently, in Sherlock's mind, he hadn't just made that exact statement about a minute ago. "Can you tell what kind?" John crossed the room and knelt down by the unconscious girl, checking her pulse, heartbeat and probing her mouth open to see the condition of her throat, and when he found nothing, rolled the sleeve of her coat up to examine her upper arm.

"Propofol. Administered via injection to her upper arm about three hours ago. It's a wonder that she managed to stay conscious as long as she did. She'll be out for at least thirty-six hours, maybe less depending on the exact strength and quantity in her system." He looked up at Sherlock. "We can't chuck her out. She'll die." Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "To get it out of her system properly, she needs a shot of morphine, just to get rid of it faster. I can give her that, but she'll need a good couple of weeks to recover fully. Med kit, please." John held out his hand, and Sherlock smiled at the way he went into doctor mode. He handed him the kit without questioning, and John quickly administered the shot. He stood up and handed the case back to Sherlock, who put it back in their bureau.

"I think…I think she ought to stay here until she recovers," John said firmly. She's in no fit state to go back out onto the streets, and I'd feel awful if anything happened to her." Sherlock just nodded his assent absentmindedly. He wasn't really interested in the girl, just the note that came with her, and he decided to head down to St Bart's and get the microscopes and x-rays involved.

"I'm heading down to the morgue," he said, grabbing his coat from the back of their front door and winding his scarf around his neck.

"What? But Sherlock, it's half past six in the morning…" John said in disbelief.

"Details, details, John!" Sherlock said eagerly, already halfway out the door. "A possible case of a drugged girl and her mysterious note, directed straight to us. Why, John? Who would specifically tell a young woman to come to 221B Baker Street, but then drug her before she could leave properly? And how did they know my name? So many questions, John! How can you fail to love it?" John just looked at him.

"If you say so." Sherlock did a little spin on the spot, grabbed John's shoulders and planted a kiss on his forehead.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" John said angrily; Sherlock just grinned like an idiot.

"Don't you understand, John? There's finally something to do! I'll be back by midday…hopefully. Just do…do whatever. I don't really care." And with that, Sherlock was down the stairs and was slamming the door behind him.

John blinked. In a way, he was happy that Sherlock finally had something to do, so perhaps would stop him tearing the flat to pieces or playing that damned violin in all hours of the night. But on the other hand, he was left alone in the flat with an unconscious girl whom they knew absolutely nothing about. He looked down at the sofa, where a sheen of sweat was starting to appear on the girl's forehead. He knew that the next few hours would not be a pleasant one for either of them, so he knelt down at her side and studied her face.

He didn't know or remember what colour her eyes were, but she had a heart-shaped face with a smooth complexion, although being ever so slightly tanned. Her curls that were sticking to her forehead were glossy and beautiful, falling to just below her shoulders. He could see soft crinkles around the corners of her eyes, so he knew she must smile a lot. Her lips were full, although currently a deathly purplish-blue. Overall, he thought that she had a very kind face, which just increased his wonder about what her story was. She must have had enemies if someone had drugged her, or just perhaps somebody who didn't want her involved with Sherlock. He scrolled through his known list of such people in his head. There were the dummies in the police: Donovan, Anderson…but he couldn't really imagine that either of those would have done something like this. The only other person he could think of was Mycroft…now there was a hugely likely possibility. He knew how Mycroft had tried to discourage him from associating with Sherlock…yes, Mycroft was the only one he could think of that really had it in him to drug an innocent young woman. He felt angry at Sherlock's brother involuntarily, and was only brought back to reality when the girl lying on the sofa in front of him let out a piercing scream.


	2. The Confusing Revelations

**I am typing to try and warm my fingers up! Damn cold and windy weather here in the U.K.! Anyway, sorry for the weird A/N, but I hope you are all finding the story relatively enjoyable. I wanted to do a John/OC because there aren't many and let's face it, who doesn't love John? He deserves a girl of his own for once! Anyway, I hope you are finding it okay! :)**

* * *

**2: The Confusing Revelations**

John sprang into action, running the cold tap until it was really ice cold, and then filling a basin with the water. He grabbed a cloth from his doctor's kit and quickly wet it, then quickly returned to the girl's side. He began to bathe her forehead and arms with the iced water like a robot; he had dealt with situations like this so many times before that he barely needed to think about what he was doing.

But this time something was different. Normally, the cold water caused the patient to calm down a little bit, but the second that the cloth made contact with her skin, the girl just screamed even louder and cowered away from John's touch. John had only seen a situation like this once or twice before…it had not ended well. He had been in Afghanistan when one of his friends…Adrian, he remembered he was called…had come back from patrol one night almost hysterical, so one of the trainee doctors had given him a shot to calm him down and help him sleep. But the doctor was only an amateur, so he had administered a fraction too much, which had eventually proved to be fatal. The man had displayed symptoms almost identical to the ones of the girl in front of him – the same sheen of sweat on the forehead; shying away from the cooling water that was meant to help her; screaming hysterically although unconscious. John raked a hand through his hair. Obviously he had no idea who this girl was, but he felt an obligation to help her, if only to nurse her back to health so that he and Sherlock could solve her mystery.

John's brain went into overdrive. The wet cloth hadn't worked in Adrian's case…so it probably wouldn't work in the case of this girl either. He set the basin down on the floor next to him, and smoothed the hair away from her forehead. When he did this, the girl didn't cower away from him, and her screaming quieted ever so slightly, so John did it again. About thirty minutes later, she had almost stopped crying completely and wasn't writhing around as violently. John felt a strange sense of doing something immoral, being alone in his flat with a young woman of whom he knew absolutely nothing about, in the early morning. The close contact he was making with her by stroking her forehead gave him an even stronger sense of doing something wrong, although he knew that he was being ridiculous. He was just helping a patient, the same thing that he did every single day of his working life, so he should stop worrying about himself and start doing everything in his power to save the girl in front of him. But he felt oddly vulnerable. The fact that he'd only dealt with one case like this before in his life…and in that case, the patient had died…was not particularly reassuring, and he didn't really have any idea what to do. He knew what _not _to do – at least he thought he did – but he had no idea what active steps he could take to ensure the girl's security through the night. He tapped his fingers absentmindedly on his knee, momentarily stopping the soothing stroking of the girl's forehead. The second his fingers stilled, she let out another piercing scream, and her body was overtaken by the most horrible convulsions. All John could do was watch in horror. She began to scream, as if she was talking to somebody.

"NO! Please don't shoot…NO! How could you?! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" John's fingers hovered over her forehead, knowing that he should put an end to the young woman's suffering and resume his soothing motion. But the small part of his brain that had only surfaced since living with Sherlock told him to leave her alone. Perhaps he could discover something about the dark past that she clearly had by letting her shout, and he would just sit quietly and listen, noting down everything that she said and trying to retain the truly important statements. The girl's yelling had ceased and she just sobbed now, looking as if she was trying to disappear into the sofa cushions beneath her. John opened his mouth to try and speak gently to her, when the front door burst open downstairs and he heard Sherlock's quick footsteps bounding up the stairs three at a time. He flung open the door melodramatically, discarded his coat with flair and collapsed into his armchair, resting his chin on his fingertips.

"Nothing." He looked up at John disappointedly. "The only thing the x-rays and microscopes gave me was the information that the note was written with a black handwriting pen, probably a Berol, that was running out of ink and so had to be used a few times to get the note to actually come through. There were no notable fingerprints on the note except for the girl's, and the only other marks on the note were from rain, which means that she must have been outside for a fairly long time, in the rain, with that note in her hand. But other than that, absolutely nothing of use in tracing her whereabouts or anything about her." Sherlock sighed, and John subtly cleared his throat. Sherlock looked up, looking bored.

"What?" he asked.

"Okay…I'm not quite sure how to say this…" John wavered, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously at him. "I've only ever seen one person in this state before, and that was in Afghanistan. It…it didn't end well." Sherlock looked at the sobbing girl, and then back at John, looking confused.

"What's she doing?" John just rolled his eyes.

"She's crying, Sherlock," he said, stressing the word 'crying' as if he was talking to a small child. "One of the usual effects of propofol is horrific nightmares, and she was crying out a minute ago. I expect she'll start up again in a minute." Sherlock leaned forward, his interest piqued once more. He grabbed John's shoulders and stared hard into his face.

"What did she say, John? Tell me the exact words that she said." John hesitated for a moment.

"She said, 'No, please don't shoot, no…' and then she said 'How could you? I hate you, I hate you, I hate you'." He looked at Sherlock. "Why?" Sherlock was staring absentmindedly at the wall behind John's head, as he repeated the words over and over. Realisation dawned on his face and he stood up rapidly.

"Okay…" he said, weighing up his options in his mind. "So the first thing that comes to mind when she's unconscious is someone being shot, probably a loved one if it's so important to her. It must have happened fairly recently due to the fact that she's still dwelling on it and already subconsciously thinking about it. She arrives on the doorstep of a specific address with a note directing her to that exact spot. The person who gave her the note knew of me and they knew where I lived, but I would expect that this said person is the same one that was shot." He picked the note up and read it again. "Yes…almost definitely a parent who has been killed. The way that it says 'I LOVE YOU' at the bottom obviously suggests someone who cared about her, but the note has general tone of wanting to protect a close one, but highly unlikely to be a husband or boyfriend." John frowned.

"How do you know that?" Sherlock just gave him a withering stare.

"Somehow, they knew who I was and trusted that I would help her…they wanted to protect her, John. The message has a tone of parental protection rather than the idea of a partner wanting to try and keep her safe." He tossed the note over to John, perched on the arm of his chair and drew his knees to his chest. His fingertips fused together and absentmindedly tapped his top lip as he thought. "Let's test you, John. How do you know that the note is from a parent rather than a partner?" John rubbed the side of his nose.

"Er…well, it's quite certain, almost as if the writer had met you before."

"Good!" Sherlock said enthusiastically. "Elaborate."

"I suppose if the writer had just heard about you, they might have put something like 'SEE IF HE WILL HELP YOU' rather than just 'MR HOLMES WILL HELP YOU'."

"Excellent, John! We will make a detective out of you yet!" Sherlock leapt up off the chair and began pacing back and forth, still with his fingertips pressed firmly together. "So the likelihood of a younger man having met me in the past is a considerable amount less likely than an older man. An older man would be more likely to…"

"Whoa, slow down…" John interrupted. "How do you know it's a man now?" Sherlock stopped pacing and huffed, exasperated.

"The writing, John, the writing!" he said impatiently. "This is written in block capitals, quite clearly masculine handwriting. Women are a hell of a lot less likely to write in block or with a Berol handwriting pen. No, it's most definitely a man's handwriting." John nodded.

"Okay. Carry on." Sherlock resumed his pacing.

"So, as I was saying…an older man would be more likely to watch the news – at home, by himself more often than a younger man would be. Therefore, the relation was almost definitely a father. The amount of times that I featured in the news around the time of…er…" he looked at John uncertainly.

"Reichenbach," John said. "It's okay, Sherlock. You are allowed to say it." Sherlock nodded.

"He could easily have been at, say…Moriaty trial and seen me there. He could have seen me anywhere! But where could he have met me to know that I was, as he put it, 'A GOOD MAN'…?" Sherlock thought for a moment before leaning forward slowly, realisation dawning on his face. "Oh, of course…he didn't have to have actually met me. As long as he had been on one of our cases, any of them, he could form an opinion about me. Perhaps he was…" Sherlock's eyes opened wide, and a half smile crossed his face. "The police!" He said, jumping and turning 180°. "Of course, of course, of course! The Yard! How could I have been so stupid?" He turned to John while putting his coat on again. "Her father – he must have been part of Lestrade's gang! _That's _how he knew me! He'd seen me working from a distance so many times when Lestrade brought me in! I've probably talked to him at some point!" Sherlock was almost dancing from excitement. "It fits, John, it fits! Working with us so many times…he would have had ample time to form an opinion of me. He would have known exactly where I lived, and known that I was his best bet to protect his daughter after he was gone…"

"But who would have wanted to kill him?" John asked, trying desperately to keep up with Sherlock's rapid deductions. Sherlock just shrugged.

"He was a police officer," he said. "He would have had enemies. It could have been anyone." He turned up the collar of his coat and pulled on his gloves. "I'm going out. I'm heading down to see Lestrade to see what I can find out about any of the police officers – did any of them have daughters, did they have any particular enemies… So how old is this girl?" He surveyed the young woman for a few seconds. "Probably early to mid-twenties…so that would mean that her father could be anywhere from about fifty. He must have been a widower, as why else would he choose to entrust his daughter to a man that he had only ever seen from a distance, rather than giving her over to his wife's care? He must have known that he was going to die, and made subsequent arrangements to ensure her welfare…John, this gets more exciting by the second!" Sherlock did a little twirl, his coat tails flying out around him, before bouncing downstairs once more. "You stay here!" he yelled from downstairs. "Note down anything else that she says or does – we can't afford to lose any clues! I'll be back later!" And John heard the door slam shut.

He sighed, did a quick check of the girl's pulse and breathing rate, and headed into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He had a feeling that it was going to be a long day.

* * *

Almost four hours later, John was flicking through the newspaper with one eye on the young woman on the sofa opposite him. He wasn't really concentrating on the paper: he looked at it but didn't see or read any of the text. The girl hadn't done anything else since Sherlock's departure apart from let out a few muffled sobs, but John couldn't help but worry for her. Her lips had started to return to their natural reddish hue once more, and she didn't look at tight as she had done when he had first brought her up, some six hours ago now. The doctor in John started doing some rapid calculations: propofol usually wore off after thirty-six hours maximum, but the shot that he had administered should have reduced that by at least twelve hours. So she had about twenty-four hours to completely resume consciousness, although she would more likely be awake before then, if not coherent. In theory, he shouldn't have much longer to wait, so he knelt down by her side once more and began to study the line of her jaw.

If Sherlock had prominent cheekbones, then this girl had a prominent jaw. It didn't stick out as such, but it was a clear, well-defined bone that gave her an air of determination, but also held its own unique beauty. Now that her face was not hideously contorted with sobs all the time, John could truly see how lovely she was. If she walked down the street towards him, he probably wouldn't have been bowled over by how stunning she was, but she was still undeniably beautiful, in an 'I enjoy life' sort of way. If he had been Sherlock, he supposed that he could probably have deduced all the places that she had ever visited, where she went to school and where she lived just from the contours of her face, but John had no such incredible skills. He could just look at her and think that she was a very pretty young woman who didn't deserve such horrific treatment as she had clearly undergone in the last few days. He hoped with all his heart that she would be okay and he wouldn't have the guilt of yet another death on his conscience. Without thinking, he began to trace the line of her jaw with his fingertip, and she inhaled sharply. He quickly drew his finger away, worried that she was going to start crying out again. But she didn't; her breathing rate merely increased slightly. John looked at her warily, and moved away again, back to his newspaper, unconsciously trying to turn the pages without rustling them too much.

About twenty minutes later, he heard a loud gulp of air coming from the sofa and pretty much leapt out of his chair with shock, his heart beating ten to the dozen. He saw the girl's eyes jerk open, although they were blurry and unfocused. Still, his heart leapt that she hadn't died – he could cope with her condition now that she had regained consciousness, although it remained to be seen how long for. He quickly knelt by her and felt her forehead with his fingertips, her eyes following his hand.

"Hello," he said with a smile. She looked back at him blankly, and he smiled again. "You're going to be okay." She blinked at him, and her slow brain could just about form the sentence that she had to ask.

"Mr…Holmes?" she whispered again, just as she had when she and John had first met. John shook his head.

"He'll be back soon," he said soothingly, his voice taking on the lilting quality that it did whenever he was dealing with a patient who was in a bad way. He gently shook her hand. "My name's Doctor John Watson. I've been looking after you." He smiled kindly again, and this time the girl could just bring herself to raise the corners of her mouth ever so slightly.

"Lucie," she said softly. "Lucie Ellery. When will…Mr Holmes…be back?" she asked weakly, every word being a struggle.

"I'm not entirely sure…" John said uncertainly. "He has a habit of disappearing off for a few hours. But he'll be back soon, I'm sure of it." He smiled down at her reassuringly, and to his surprise, she gripped his hand determinedly.

"Don't let me sleep again," she said obstinately. John just nodded.

"Okay. But I just need to send a text a moment…" she nodded, and he crossed the room to his phone.

She's awake and talking.

- JW

A reply beeped back within seconds.

I'll be there ASAP. Just keep her coherent until I can talk to her. Talk about the weather or something.

- SH

John rolled his eyes and headed back to Lucie, smiling again.

"He says he's on his way." She nodded, taking hold of his hand again and tracing the lines on his palm. John felt strangely uncomfortable, although not necessarily unpleasantly. They sat like that for about ten minutes before the door was opened and Sherlock walked in, with the smug look on his face that meant he had discovered something of great use and was about to try and extract even more information out of someone else.

* * *

**So here we meet our heroine, Lucie, and solve a tiny bit of her mystery. Please, please review – any constructive criticism or ideas for the future are very welcome! Thanks for reading! :)**


	3. The Determined Recovery

**Thank you for the lovely positive feedback on the last chapter. I am glad that John and Sherlock are both in character, and here we shall meet Lucie in a bit more detail…**

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

**3: The Determined Recovery**

"Sherlock…" John said warningly, raising his eyebrows at him and giving him a look that said 'This girl has just regained consciousness so please go easy on her'. Sherlock just shrugged and gave him a disregarding look, crossing over the room so that he could sit in his armchair, dragging it round and positioning it directly in front of Lucie. John didn't like the intense gaze that he could see in Sherlock's eyes, feeling almost a hundred per cent certain that Sherlock was going to pull his usual trick of complete insensitivity towards people's feelings. Lucie attempted to sit up slightly on the sofa so that she could see him better.

"How long ago was it?" Sherlock asked abruptly. Lucie blinked and looked confused, her brow furrowing ever so slightly.

"What?" she said quietly. Sherlock drummed his fingers on his knee impatiently.

"How long ago was it that your father was shot?" John slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand, and Lucie drew in a breath, tears forming quickly in her eyes.

"Oh my goodness, Sherlock! Did you really just say that?" John asked, barely believing what he had just heard the other man say. Sherlock just looked fed up.

"How would you rather me say it?" he said, annoyed, before faking a high, sickly-sweet accent. He took Lucie's hand and looked at her gently, so obviously overacting.

"So, dearie, how long ago was it…ahem…since your father's untimely departure from this world?" John hit him.

"Shut up." Sherlock looked up again, a patronising edge in his eyes. "She needs to rest, Sherlock. She's still got that propofol cruising through her veins, so you stomping in and asking her about her dead father is probably not the best or most subtle move!" Sherlock just looked slightly confused.

"Well, I need to know." John rolled his eyes and took Sherlock's elbow, steering him away from Lucie and sitting him down at their table. He took the seat opposite.

"Okay," he said slowly. "What did you find out from Lestrade?" Sherlock's eyes lit up, and he began to talk quickly, with John struggling to keep up.

"As far as we know, her father was a senior officer who served under Lestrade. He had done for the past twenty-three years, and he was fifty-six. He'd known Lestrade since he was very young – they grew up together, pretty much. Apparently, the last time that he was seen at work was Tuesday 19th November – so a week and a half ago – and no one has gotten hold of him since. Lestrade gave me an address from the police records, so we can go down and visit there later. He didn't know very much about his family, but apparently his wife died about fifteen years ago, leaving him with a daughter and a baby boy. The daughter must be our drugged friend, but Lestrade has no idea what happened to the boy." John held up his hand.

"Forgive me if you think this is an irrelevant detail, but what was his name?" Sherlock looked at him incredulously.

"Stuart Ellery, not that it's really particularly important." John rolled his eyes and just nodded.

"That fits," he said. "She told me that her name was Lucie Ellery, so I guess she must be his daughter." Sherlock clapped slowly and patronisingly.

"Your powers of deduction never fail to astound, Dr Watson." John gave him a death stare, but he ignored it and carried on talking.

"The big question is, of course, why and when did he die? According to the girl, he was shot – or according to her hallucinations – but we still don't know why, or exactly when. If he 'went missing' a week and a half ago, my guess is that he went into hiding because he knew somebody was coming for him, but he still held out hope of being able to escape. He probably died yesterday, judging by the fact that…what did you say her name was?"

"Lucie," John said, although he had told Sherlock that a few minutes ago.

"…judging by the fact that Lucie came here about six hours ago, with the drug having been in her system for how long?"

"Four hours at most."

"So her father must have been shot right in front of her eyes yesterday at some point, then she must have been held for a few extra hours, before being released or escaping directly after being drugged. But when could she have got this note from her father…" Sherlock shut his eyes, thinking for a split second before snapping his fingers. "Of course! If he knew he was going to die as early as a week and a half in advance, he must have penned this note around that time, and planted it in her pocket, or somewhere where she would be bound to find it. Clever…clever, clever, clever Mr Ellery!" Sherlock clapped his hands together in glee. "John, we have to visit the house. Now." John shook his head.

"It may only be two o'clock in the afternoon, Sherlock, but I am absolutely shattered. If you recall, _somebody _was playing the violin until goodness knows what time of night, and then this whole thing with Lucie erupted…I reckon I've only actually had about four hours of sleep tonight. So I am going to bed." Sherlock went to protest, looking incredulous, but John held up his hand. "I know, I know…for you, four hours is more than enough, but us mere mortals do like to have some time to sleep. Me in particular." Sherlock's eyes took on a pleading look.

"John, please…" he said. "I need your help. You don't have to come down to the house with me if you don't want to, but please could you just stay here with Lucie to keep an eye on her? I'll be…well, I'm not sure…but just in case she does anything else? It really is your duty as a doctor, you know…" John huffed in annoyance. He knew that Sherlock was guilt tripping him into staying awake, but it was so difficult to resist. Sherlock could be so persuasive when he wanted to be – it reminded him of the time at Baskerville when Sherlock had tried to enlist his help again by telling him that 'I don't have friends. I just have one'. John had always been rubbish at resisting people's pleas, and he caved in immediately.

"Well, okay…" he said reluctantly. "But don't think I don't know that you're guilt tripping me." Sherlock just smirked – he knew that the pleading would have weakened John's defences immediately. "But Sherlock…do you really think that it's the best thing to head straight down to the house now? Would it not be better to try and find out as much as you can about Mr Ellery before you head straight down to his house, maybe where he was killed?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked suspiciously. The last thing he needed was for his friend to try and discourage him from doing what he needed to do. John sighed.

"I don't want anything to happen to you, Sherlock," he said wearily. "That's what friends do: they look out for each other. I just think it would be better if you were more prepared for what you might find down at Ellery's before you rush headlong into goodness knows what." Sherlock considered for a moment. "I'll do some research on my laptop here, if you'd like. I'm sure there'll be some background information on him and his family on the police records." Sherlock tipped his head to one side.

"Okay," he said reluctantly. "I'll go and talk to some of the morons down at the police station and see if I can find out anything about him from any of his work colleagues. Maybe I can find out if he had any enemies. Meanwhile, you keep an eye on Lucie and inform me of any developments." John nodded, and Sherlock rose and put his coat on for the third time that day. He quickly wound his scarf around his neck and turned his collar up. John couldn't help smiling.

"What?" Sherlock asked, looking nettled. John snickered.

"You're doing the mysterious detective act again." Sherlock just gave him a withering look. "No, it's fine. It's just funny." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and swept out of the flat, closing the door firmly behind him; a few seconds later, John heard the front door slam too. Still smiling, he grabbed his laptop from the other side of the table and attempted to log on. Tapping his password in, he pressed 'enter', but a message came up on the screen.

INCORRECT PASSWORD

John frowned and retyped it carefully, but the same message appeared. Puzzled for a moment, John tried to think if he'd changed his password recently. But he hadn't – it was still 'HENRY', the same as it had always been. John growled in frustration as he remembered coming into the flat the other day to see Sherlock tinkering on his laptop. Of course! The idiot must have changed his password! He supposed that Sherlock thought it was funny, and he reached across to grab his phone, ready to send a text to him, but it beeped before he got there.

Yes, I changed your password. Well worked out.

- SH

John was fuming. He sent back a reply quickly.

Well, thanks a bunch. Any chance of telling me what it is?

- JW

A response beeped within seconds.

Nope. As per usual, you see but do not observe.

- SH

John growled again and slammed the phone down on the table.

"Is he always like this?" John nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Lucie's voice; he'd forgotten she was there. He turned around and smiled exhaustedly at her.

"Yes." She nodded and looked down at the phone in her hand, which John didn't know that she had.

"Because I've got this text from him." John bent down and took the phone from her, scanning it quickly.

I cracked John's password in about eight seconds. Not exactly FORT KNOX.

- SH

John sighed again. The password quickly became evident, and he returned to his laptop, typing 'FORTKNOX' into the dialog box quickly. The laptop beeped, and his Welcome screen came up. He grabbed his phone and texted Sherlock:

Nice try. You really shouldn't be so obvious next time, Mr Holmes.

- JW

His phone beeped at him.

Just a quick test. You really think I thought that was hard?

- SH

John sighed again and laid his phone on the table, quickly looking up Stuart Ellery on the Yard's records. Lucie watched his every move, although her thoughts were not really on John. They were on Sherlock, the doctor's friend, who had been so thoughtless and yet so appealing. She couldn't get the image of his eyes out of her head, and they seemed to burn bright, vivid holes in her generally fuzzy brain. She watched John working for about half an hour as he looked at the screen, occasionally breaking his gaze to look at the keyboard and type with two fingers. She looked sideways at his fingers as they typed. He'd obviously never been taught to type properly, as he only used one finger from each hand, but he'd had a lot of practise judging from the speed at which he typed. The longer she watched him for, the more tired she felt, and eventually she felt her eyes slipping close and tumbled back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Lucie awoke a few hours later, taking a few moments to fathom where she was. But she quickly remembered and took a rapid glance at John, still sat at the table. She couldn't help but smile at the way his head rested on his laptop keyboard; he was fast asleep. She was pleased, as she felt a lot more coherent than she had earlier – her brain was sharp and she felt pretty much like herself again. Standing up slowly to test her legs, she headed into the flat's kitchen to try and make a cup of tea. The amount of science experiments everywhere shocked her slightly, but it was clear that Sherlock was a genius, however eccentric, and she supposed that she should have expected nothing less from him. Eventually finding the kettle and a mug, she boiled some water, and managed to fish out some teabags from behind a microscope. Peeping back into the living room, she saw that John had not even stirred, so she thought she should make him a cuppa too. It was the least that she could do for him after how much he had helped her. Grabbing a second mug, she quickly made the tea, and was just wondering how John liked his when her phone vibrated in her back pocket.

A splash of milk but no sugar for John. Don't make it too strong.

- SH

She smiled, although bewildered at how Sherlock had known that she was making tea. She quickly followed his instructions and pottered into the lounge, wielding two mugs of tea. She gently put one down next to John, and he stirred at the clinking sound that it made when it hit the table. One eye flickered, and he looked at her sleepily.

"I made you tea," she said with a smile, which he quickly returned. He picked up the mug and sipped from it, closing his eyes in pleasure.

"How did you know how I like it?" he asked, and Lucie grinned.

"Your friend texted me," she said. He looked confused.

"Who? Sherlock?" She nodded, and he looked a bit bewildered. "Well, er…thanks." He looked at her gratefully, and she crossed over and sat back down on the sofa.

"Is he nice?" she asked. "Sherlock, I mean." John ran a hand through his hair.

"He's…he's never dull," he said with a grimace.

"I can imagine." John looked at her.

"What do you mean?" Lucie blushed.

"Well…he's clearly a genius…" John felt a smile creep onto his face.

"Lucie Ellery, I believe that you have developed a crush on our Mr Holmes." She tried to look horrified.

"Don't be ridiculous! He's barely spoken two words to me!" John looked sceptical. "Well, okay…his eyes are nice." John laughed.

"His eyes?" She smiled at him and laughed too.

"Well, you know…they're so…green." John laughed again, and she joined in. "I know it sounds stupid. But they're the first thing I saw of him, and…" she looked up sultrily from underneath her eyelashes. "I never could resist a green-eyed man!" she drawled in an exaggerated Texan accent, causing the two of them to fall about laughing, and John to think that he hoped very much that Sherlock would let Lucie stay. She seemed like a lovely young woman.

* * *

**So now I've introduced Lucie a bit more. ****Please review – any constructive criticism or ideas for the future are very welcome! Thanks for reading, and sorry the chapter was a bit shorter! :)**


	4. The Delayed Introductions

**I am hoping that you are all still enjoying the story! I'm a little short on reviews, so please drop me one, even if it's only a couple of lines long! They really do make it worth the effort. Anyway, prepare for some crippling Reichenbach feels from reliving the experience again…You have my full permission to writhe around on the floor as much as you wish! :)**

* * *

**4: The Delayed Introductions**

Finally managing to stop laughing, Lucie and John smiled at each other once again. Lucie tapped her fingers on the side of her mug of tea absentmindedly, and looked down at them. She had so many questions to ask, but she knew that most of them couldn't be answered yet, and she had better wait until Sherlock got back; he would probably have a lot more details to give her, as lovely as John seemed to be. In the meantime, she supposed that she had better get to know her new acquaintance a little better.

"So what's your story?" she asked. "I'm really sorry if you've already told me, but I'm afraid I don't remember your…"

"Dr John Watson," John said quickly, extending a hand for her to shake, which she did.

"Doctor?" she asked, smiling slightly. John took a deep breath and swallowed.

"I used to be an army doctor in Afghanistan until about three years ago; served as a captain, actually, as well as a doctor. I saw my fair share of horrors…but of course all that ended when I was shot in my left shoulder." He tapped his shoulder and grimaced. "Packed me straight home then, of course. Ended up with a psychosomatic limp, although that doesn't come up very often now. It virtually vanished once I met Sherlock and started solving cases with him." He leant forward. "You see, as terrible as it sounds, although I had nightmares about being back in Afghanistan, and seeing all those young lads die…I loved the danger of it. Never knowing what was around the corner…it thrilled me, in some crazy, twisted way. So when I got back, I developed this limp, and my hands used to shake all the time. But when I was in a dangerous situation, I didn't shake and my limp disappeared…of course, Sherlock knew that all along. He knew that I missed the danger. And it's true. When I'm with Sherlock…it's like being back out there again. I never know what's going to happen; there's never a dull moment." Lucie had watched him throughout this, and leant back, taking a sip of her tea.

"But you use your stick now." John sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Yes…" he said wearily, not quite sure how to explain the circumstances around Reichenbach to her. "To cut a long story short, Sherlock faked his own death about eighteen months ago. I lived here without him for months, and my limp and shaky hands came back. I suppose that's the effect that grief can have on people." Lucie choked on her tea.

"He…faked his death? But why?" she asked, confused. John just sighed again and shook his head.

"I…I don't know. Sherlock never told me what happened with Jim…" Lucie looked bewildered again.

"Jim?"

"Jim Moriarty," John clarified. "Basically, Moriarty was held on trial but somehow got out scot-free, despite not having any evidence for the defence. It was clearly an inside job by the jury, but he somehow managed to get the whole of London to turn on Sherlock. There was this journalist who wrote that Sherlock had made up the entire character of Moriarty just to get publicity, and Jim played along, pretending that he was an actor. He had a whole stack of references to prove that he wasn't this other man, and there was nothing that Sherlock could do to stop him. I don't know exactly what happened there. We went down the morgue as usual, and Sherlock was talking to Molly. I got a phone call saying that Mrs Hudson, our landlady, had been shot, so naturally I rushed back to Baker Street, although I supposed I should have known that Sherlock was up to something when he didn't even seem bothered and said that he was too busy to come and check on her. I don't know what happened when I was gone, but by the time I'd got back to 221B as fast as I could, it turned out Mrs Hudson was fine…and by then, I knew that something was wrong. I got a cab back to St Bart's, and I had a phone call from Sherlock just as I was getting out…" John paused, fighting back the tears that threatened to come despite the event not actually being Sherlock's death. He took a deep breath and continued his account. "He told me…he told me that he was a fake and that the world would be better off without him. He said that he wasn't a real detective after all, and that all his deductions were the result of meticulous research. He told me that that phone call was his 'note'…that people leave when they die. He was crying, but I was basically in denial. I couldn't face what he meant. He told me to keep my eyes fixed on him, and then he said…he said 'Goodbye, John' and hung up, and I yelled up at him…but it was too late. He spread out his arms and fell." John buried his face in his hands; he'd never relived the experience so vividly. Lucie listened, never taking her eyes off him, her own face becoming drenched with silent waterfalls of tears. She couldn't imagine having a conversation like that with anyone. John choked back a sob and continued, determined to finish his story. "It was so surreal – like everything was in slow motion. I watched him fall…right from the roof until he hit the pavement. I didn't even blink; I have no idea how he faked it. I ran over to him, but a bike hit me and knocked me down on the pavement for about half a minute, by which time there was already a massive crowd around him. They let me through because I was a doctor and I told them that I was his friend, but I couldn't even touch him before they loaded him up onto a stretched and dragged me away from him. It was the most horrible day of my life…I didn't even get the chance to say goodbye. They took him away on the stretcher, and I barely even got to see him before he was carried off." John stopped, his story at an end. Lucie prompted him gently.

"What did you do after that?" she asked quietly, her heart bursting with sympathy for John and all that he must have gone through that day. John sniffed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I came back to the flat, of course…" he trailed off. "But it was all too familiar. All his clothes were still in his room…his skull was still on the mantelpiece…all the damn body parts scattered all over the kitchen…" Lucie looked alarmed, and John laughed through his tears. "It was horrible. Every noise I heard, I expected to be him, throwing open the door and telling me how stupid I was. I would have given anything to get him back…his insults, his abuse…" Lucie smiled. "But I couldn't. And the flat was too much…him. So I went to stay with my sister for a few weeks, to try and take my mind off it. And when I got back…well, there he was. I thought I was going mad to start with, but it was him…and now here we are. He never told me how he survived, but he was back, and that was all that mattered. But as for your question of why I use my stick again…when he was gone, my limp came back, and he's only been back for about six months. We haven't had any cases, so it doesn't disappear overnight. But it's a hell of a lot better than it was, and I only have to use my stick occasionally now." Lucie smiled again.

"You carried me up the stairs, didn't you?" John nodded sheepishly. She got up, crossed the room to the door, opened it and looked down the stairs. "They're quite steep, you know. You didn't use your stick then, did you?" John shook his head, and she cocked her head to one side and smiled wickedly. "Was I a danger?" John laughed and looked down to hide the slight blush on his cheeks. Lucie just laughed with him and slid back into her chair, her head suddenly feeling heavy again.

"Are you okay?" John asked, concerned as her head began to droop.

"Fine," she murmured. "Just a bit…tired again…" John smiled.

"Of course," he said. "That drug's still in your system. Stupid me for talking at you too much…" Lucie's eyes were already closing, so he walked to her and picked her up gently, taking her to his bedroom and inserting her carefully in between the bed sheets. He quietly shut the curtains and left the room, closing the door behind him. He felt strange at having shared the account of Reichenbach with an almost total stranger, but also strangely liberated. His psychologist had tried to get him to open up about what had happened, but he never really felt that he could talk to her. Lucie, on the other hand…he didn't feel uncomfortable at talking to her, and she really was a good listener. She reminded him of Sherlock when she concentrated; she pressed her fingertips together and rested the tip of her nose on them. He just liked it because she didn't try to analyse exactly what he was feeling and why, she was willing to just listen like she really cared about what happened…perhaps she did.

He wondered how long she would end up staying with them. For her to fully recover, he supposed it would take at least a week, if not two, and he felt an obligation to protect her now, having talked to her about the deepest and darkest elements of his past with Sherlock. He decided that he would have to have a talk with his flatmate when he returned, for he wanted to solve Lucie's mystery and make sure that she had somewhere to go before Sherlock insisted on throwing her out.

Unsure of what to do next, he headed back to the table where his mug of tea now sat stone cold, and took it to the kitchen, pouring the liquid down the sink and setting the mug down on the side, amidst the mountains of dirty dishes. For the meantime, he supposed he had little to do until Sherlock returned, so he sat down and set about updating his blog.

* * *

Lucie could see her father, broken and beaten on the floor in front of her. She would have done anything to help him, but she herself was secured to the wall with unforgiving metal cuffs and chained that cut into her skin and held her in a merciless grip. Across from her, she could see the silhouette of the man that she hated most in the world, laughing at their discomfort. He came towards her and ran a long, cold finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him, and planted an icy kiss on her forehead.

"You see, my dear, that's the problem with becoming too attached to your pathetic little families," he lilted in his soft Irish accent. "They have a nasty habit of…disappearing at the click of a finger. Of course, you and papa dear have had plenty of time to bond over the last week. I'm surprised you didn't take more time over your goodbyes…but it's too late now, I'm afraid." Lucie growled at him with contempt and spat in his face, but he just smiled and kissed her again, this time on her cheek. "It's so adorable when you try to be contemptuous. I suppose it's just not in your nature. Pity…if it was, I have a feeling that you and your precious papa would have escaped long ago. But who am I to drone on? While we're having this delightful little chat, I could have shot your dear daddy a hundred times…" He suddenly produced a revolver from his pocket and aimed it at Lucie's father who lay bloodied and broken on the soiled floor. With all her might, Lucie threw her head onto the man's arm, begging him not to shoot.

"NO! Please don't shoot…" he merely looked at her with a smirk and pulled the trigger mercilessly. Lucie's father slumped to the ground, and she felt anger overtake her.

"Oops," said her captor, putting a hand to his mouth in mock horror. She sunk her teeth into his arm as hard as she could and continued to shout at him.

"NO! How could you?! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" her voice trailed off, replaced by gasping sobs, as he merely kissed her harshly and unchained her from the wall.

"Well, little Miss Ellery…" he said. "I suppose I can let you go now. You have nowhere to go, no food…I expect to see the announcement of your death on the front page of The Times in the next couple of days. Ta-ta!" He threw her one last patronising look before stalking out of the warehouse, not bothering to shut the door being him.

Lucie waited until his footsteps had completely faded before rushing over to her father, silently begging him not to be dead…although she knew that it was futile. Turning him over, she saw a large gaping wound in his side, and she buried her head in his lifeless chest and screamed in anguish, determined not to stop until her throat was so raw that it prevented her…

"Lucie! Lucie! Are you okay? Can you hear me?" She opened her eyes with a huge gulp of air to see John's concerned face looking down at her. He was sat on the bed with his arms on her shoulder, and the memory of the dream…what had happened that night…was still so vivid that she just fell forward, sobbing into John's chest. She balled up fists of his shirt in her hand and screamed silently, hardly believing that she had to relive that hideous night once again. John, for his part, merely rocked her back and forth and held her tightly, letting her cry as much as she needed to. He gently stroked her hair as he would a child, finding it strange that he had only known Lucie for a few hours, and yet here he was holding her tightly. As much as he was concerned about her, he couldn't help noting that the words she had screamed out earlier were the same ones that he had heard from her the first time she had spoken. He guessed that it was a recurring nightmare that caused her to cry out, and one that probably happened fairly recently for her to keep thinking about it so much. He thought that he should probably inform Sherlock of the situation, so he gently attempted to prise Lucie away from him, looking kindly down at her red and swollen eyes. She was still crying.

"I need to go and let Sherlock know what's happening…" he said, and she nodded. "But…er…I need to go into the living room to get my phone…" Lucie let out another sob and shook her head firmly, burying her head in his chest once again. John looked down at the top of her head. What was he supposed to do now? He didn't want to leave the sobbing young woman, but he had to get hold of Sherlock. In the end, he resolved to scoop her up into his arms, where she clutched onto him tightly and coiled herself around his torso, and he carefully carried her out into the living room to locate his phone. He could see it sat on the coffee table, walked over to it and, strategically balancing Lucie on his left hip, picked it up with one hand. He hesitated for a moment, debating whether to text or phone, but then decided that Sherlock never phoned if he could help it, so he should probably text. Quickly opening up a new message, he quickly typed:

Lucie related catastrophe. She screamed the same thing as before. If you're not too busy, your presence would be appreciated.

- JW

A quick, scathing reply soon came through.

Oh brilliant. She hasn't blown up my experiments, has she?

- SH

John replied quickly:

NO. Cut a long story short, I'm now texting you with one hand while balancing her on my hip with the other. She won't stop crying and won't let me leave, so I'm having to carry her everywhere. Please hurry up, dammit.

- JW

He quickly received a reluctant reply from his friend.

Okay fine. I'll be back in an hour. But you know I can't stand hysterical women.

- SH

John just rolled his eyes and put the phone down, not bothering to reply. Lucie's sobs had slowed now and she was watching him through her eyelashes.

"Are you okay to…er…get off now?" he asked, unsure of how to phrase the question. She merely nodded, composing herself, and he gently set her down on the floor, where she stood looking down at her feet sheepishly.

"…I'm sorry about…that," she said. "I had a nightmare." John smiled.

"I guessed. Well you know…I told you about my past, so would it help for you to talk about it?" She looked away, but gave a small nod. They sat back down at the table, and John folded his hands in front of him, prepared to listen to a long story.

"Okay…" Lucie let out a long breath. "My mother died when I was sixteen, and my father never got over her death. He worked for the police force, as a senior officer under DI Lestrade, who was practically my uncle – they were so close; they grew up together. And then a few weeks ago, this man came to our house where we lived. He took my father and me away to this old abandoned warehouse place, where he kept us for about ten days. He used to whip father, and he…" she faltered. "He did…horrible things to me. He kept me chained to the wall with huge metal cuffs that fitted around my wrists and ankles, and then used metal chains to virtually pin my body to the wall. Every night he'd come in and…" Lucie buried her head in her hands and John tried to suppress a wave of anger at the captor who abused an innocent young woman in such a way. She took a deep breath and continued telling John her story. "But one night was different, and this is what I dreamed about. He came in and told me that I was weak for getting too attached to my family, because they have a nasty habit of…disappearing at the click of a finger. I spat at him but couldn't get away, and then he…" Lucie gulped, the tears welling up in her eyes again. The lump in her throat stopped her from talking, but she mimed a gun symbol with her hands, and John understood. "He shot my papa…" she sobbed. "And then he let me go. He said that he expected to find my death on the front pages in a couple of days' time, as I had no food, no nothing…" John gently prompted her.

"But he didn't…" Lucie shook her head.

"No," she said stubbornly. "You think I was going to let him win?" She smiled through her tears. "No, I fought as hard as I could. I went to all the homeless places I could think of to get food…I survived for a week." John's brow furrowed.

"So it wasn't your captor who drugged you then? If he let you go a week or so beforehand…how was it that you came to be drugged?" Lucie shrugged.

"I hardly remember much," she whispered. "I was just walking down the street, minding my own business, when a man in a hooded jacket cornered me in an alleyway. He jabbed me with a needle and then made a break for it." John nodded.

"And what about the note? The one about Sherlock?" Lucie shrugged again.

"It was in my pocket," she said. "My father must have planted it in my pocket before he…" John nodded once more and stood up.

"Well, thank you Lucie," he said. "Thank you for…telling me that." He tried to suppress a smirk. "And of course, the bonus is that I get to know a story that Sherlock doesn't!" He clapped his hands together and did a quick spin. "For once." Right on cue, the door to 221B was flung open, framing Sherlock…who was soaking wet, despite it not raining.

"What the hell happened to you?" John asked, noticing Lucie's disbelieving but also slightly starstruck gaze.

"Long story," Sherlock said shortly, crossing the room and shaking Lucie's hand vigorously with a large, fake smile on his face. "The name's Sherlock Holmes, nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Ellery." The blush that crept onto Lucie's cheeks didn't escape John's notice.

"Likewise," she said quietly, and Sherlock, formalities over, wiped the smile clean off his face, jumped into his chair, drew his knees to his chest and resumed his normal expression of boredom, although his eyes were lit up now at the chance of a potential case. John couldn't help but smirk at the knowledge that he knew more than his friend, for once in his life.

"So, Miss Ellery…" Sherlock began. "I believe I have some questions for you."

* * *

**So here John and Lucie exchange stories about their past – hopefully the Reichenbach feels weren't too crippling! And we meet a villain…hmm, who could it be? I'm assuming that the Irish accent may have been a slight giveaway! Anyway, please review (even just a few words is great by me!) – any constructive criticism or ideas for the future are very welcome! Thanks for reading! :)**


	5. The Intense Questioning

**Thank you to all my readers and those who have reviewed – particularly Edhla for your lovely constructive criticism! :) I hope you are all continuing to enjoy the story!**

* * *

**5: The Intense Questioning**

Sherlock leant forward slowly, resting his chin on his fingertips, and let out a long breath. He couldn't say that he was particularly looking forward to questioning a young woman who blushed every time that he spoke to her, but he didn't really have much choice in the matter. He had managed to find out a little bit of information from the Yard, but he knew that the only way that he could find real, solid facts would be through the woman who had been there at the time.

John was giving him a warning look, and he just rolled his eyes at him. Sherlock was perfectly capable of conducting an interview; all he had to do was snap on the charming actor, and the woman would melt. He hated having to act mysteriously to get information, as it made him feel uncomfortable and John usually made some sort of comment in the middle of it, or at least sat there silently sniggering, but he had a feeling that it would be the only way to get any sense out of the young woman in her current state.

Taking another deep breath in and readying himself for a grating hour, he flashed a blinding smile in her direction.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your name…" he asked, his voice dripping with false charm. He could see John raising his eyebrows out of the corner of his eye, and saw him turn away and stuff a fist in his mouth, trying not to laugh. Lucie, oblivious to all of this, simply blushed again.

"Lucie Ellery," she said, and he shook her hand once more, holding it a little longer than completely necessary. This produced the desired effect as she blushed and snatched her hand away, absentmindedly rubbing her fingers with her other hand; Sherlock smirked internally. This would be a doddle.

"Now, Lucie…" he said, leaning closer to her and pretending to think about how to word his question. "I know it's a hard topic for you to discuss–" He shot a glare at John who barely stifled a guffaw at the dreadfully obvious change in his friend's attitude, but Lucie didn't notice. He merely found John's toes under the table with his own and stepped on them hard, silencing him. Sherlock plastered the smile back on his face and turned back to Lucie. "–but it really is for the best if you can try and tell me exactly what happened…" He rubbed his forehead and feigned reluctance about bringing up the subject of her father's murder. "Your father…" he finished, and to his relief, Lucie nodded.

"My mother died when I was sixteen years old…" she began, but John swiftly interrupted her.

"Sherlock–" he said, trying not to grin at the knowledge that he wielded over his friend. Sherlock ignored him and flashed that blinding smile at Lucie again, prompting her to continue.

"…and my father never really got over her death…" she said, but John tried again.

"Sherlock–" he repeated, waving a hand in front of the consulting detective's face, but Sherlock just slapped his wrist and gave him a sharp jab in the ribs with his elbow. Lucie looked between the two men, seeming unsure, but Sherlock waved his hand at her to continue, a sliver of his true personality returning for a couple of seconds. She nodded, swallowed and began to resume her tale, but John got up and stood right in front of Sherlock, grabbing hold of both of his wrists and pinning him to the back of his armchair. Sherlock looked at him lazily, and John's patience snapped.

"Sherlock, for goodness sake!" he hissed, although still relishing the opportunity to hold knowledge over Sherlock. "I know all this already. She told me." He uttered each syllable slowly and deliberately, as though talking to a toddler. He may as well have been, although the look on Sherlock's face was priceless; he looked at John disbelievingly.

"She…told…_you_?" he said slowly. "Why the hell would she tell _you_ something like this?" John shot an apologetic glance over to Lucy, and stood Sherlock up, still gripping his wrists.

"Excuse us, Lucie…" John said to the young woman, who merely nodded bewilderedly. John marched Sherlock to his bedroom and sat him down on the bed, where he obediently remained, his eyes still wide and disbelieving. John couldn't help but smirk: for once he had stunned his flatmate into speechlessness. He shut the door behind him, and as soon as it clicked, Sherlock began to talk rapidly at him.

"Why the hell would she tell _you _her whole life story, and not _me_?" he asked arrogantly, and John could only sigh. "_I'm _the consulting detective!" he said petulantly, and John would not have been particularly surprised if he had stomped his foot on the floor and folded his arms. "_You're_ an idiot…you're normal; _you_ couldn't have done anything with the information. _I _could have. So therefore, she should have waited until I got back, and then told _me _all her deepest secrets." John set his jaw in a hard line and gave Sherlock a death stare. "What?" he asked, completely oblivious to the childish way in which he had just behaved and how he had insulted John, not that it really bothered him. After living with Sherlock for so long, he was used to it, and part of him did just want to laugh at him, but he knew that Sherlock would only get angry.

However, he failed to suppress a small smirk, which obviously did not go unnoticed by Sherlock.

"What's so funny?" he hissed, and John couldn't hold in his mirth any longer. He tried desperately not to laugh too hard, but the look on Sherlock's face coupled with his previous act that he'd put on for Lucie made it impossible; every time he looked back at Sherlock to compose himself, the indignation on the taller man's face was just too hilarious. Sherlock merely observed through narrowed eyes, looking like he was trying to summon laser beams through them that would somehow vaporise John.

He didn't see what was quite so funny about it. The girl had clearly opened up to John rather than to him, which annoyed him straight away. He also couldn't understand what she would have gained from telling John rather than himself – John wouldn't have been able to deduce or analyse anything about her situation, whereas that was his particular skill. John would probably only have made small talk and not actually made any real effort to cross-examine her.

Sherlock gave a small scream of frustration and slammed his hands down on his mattress, although this only succeeded in making John laugh again as he bounced up and down with a face like thunder. John watched him with an amused expression on his face, and Sherlock wanted desperately to avoid asking the question that John was waiting for…but he couldn't.

"So…what did she say?" he forced out, and John smirked smugly, taking a seat next to Sherlock.

"Okay…" he began, and told Sherlock the story that Lucie had related earlier.

* * *

Lucie stood in the middle of 221B Baker Street's living room, bouncing up and down nervously on the balls of her feet. Sherlock and John had been in Sherlock's room for a good quarter of an hour now, and she was unsure of what to do. Part of her wanted to go in and ask exactly what was going on…but she didn't think that would be the wisest course. She sighed and looked around for a clock, but couldn't find one. Biting her bottom lip, she began to look around the flat, finding out what she could about John, who had rescued her, and Sherlock, his eccentric friend who was supposed to protect her…according to her father, at least.

Picking her way through various boxes, dressing gowns, slippers and general clutter, she made her way over to the wall, where a yellow smiley face was sprayed onto the wallpaper in yellow graffiti paint. Running her fingers over the outline, she was surprised to find that the face was actually made up of any number of small indentations, and she drew her fingers back in shock – they seemed like bullet holes. Her eyes wandered over to the right, where she saw a Cluedo board nailed to the wall. Cocking her head to one side, she tried to imagine why an innocent game could cause so much trouble that it would have to be skewered, but then she realised that Sherlock was a detective. Of course, any mystery games would probably infuriate him – she supposed that he nailed it to the wall because he deduced that the murderer was somebody completely different to the person that the rules of the game said it was. She half smiled, hardly imagining what it must be like for John to live with Sherlock: it must drive him crazy.

Moving on from the mutilated Cluedo board, she circled the room until she came back to the coffee table where she and John had talked earlier. His laptop still sat open, a window open of his blog and a new entry that he was drafting. Lucie hesitated for a moment, knowing that it was wrong to rifle through the possessions of a new acquaintance…but curiosity got the better of her and she sat down in front of the laptop, quickly scrolling through John's blog. The box marked 'Cases' immediately caught her attention, and she clicked on the top one at random, labelled "The Hounds of Baskerville". She read through it, soon becoming engrossed in the story, hardly believing that such violent and ridiculous things actually happened in the lives of Sherlock and John. The last line that John had typed made her smile:

"And later, I realised something else. Sherlock had thought that the poison was in the sugar at first. He'd been _convinced_. Sherlock had made a mistake.

He is only human, after all."

She smiled at the idea of Sherlock being wrong about something; from what she'd read in the case file, it seemed that he was never wrong and would be thoroughly annoyed if he was. The ever so slightly smug way that John added that paragraph at the end reminded her of his slight happiness at having knowledge over Sherlock when she had told him her life story earlier, and she smiled again. She guessed that it was a rare occasion when Sherlock got something wrong or didn't know something, and John obviously took full advantage and stored up a little memory bank of all the times – maybe to use one day as a little dig at his intellect.

The comments underneath made her laugh too, the first one being from Sherlock himself. A scathing insult from him:

"Henry was a "normal-looking bloke"? Really, John, you should become a professional author!"

She frowned, already feeling slightly defensive of John, and supposed that Sherlock was just always like that. The blatant way in which he had ignored John earlier gave her some idea of the manner of their friendship, although they were clearly inseparable.

Lucie was jerked out of her thoughts by her phone beeping, and she closed her eyes nervously, trying to work out who would be texting her. Sherlock and John were both in the flat, so it couldn't have been either of those two texting her…the only other option was…_him_. Hesitantly, she brought the phone out of her pocket and opened the message. When she read it, her jaw dropped.

Come into my bedroom. Second door on the right. John and I need to talk to you.

- SH

She could hardly believe her eyes. Was Sherlock really texting her from his bedroom to tell her that they needed to talk? Feeling bewildered, she put the phone back in her pocket, crossed the room and pushed at the door that Sherlock had indicated. She took a deep breath, preparing to have to relay the horrors of that night, but when she entered, Sherlock was sat on his bed with his feet up and John was leaning casually against the wardrobe. She looked from one to the other – something wasn't right. John's face looked slightly red, while Sherlock was fixing her with such an intense gaze that she had to look away after a few seconds.

"Why did you text me?" she asked. "Why couldn't you just come outside again?" Sherlock groaned and flopped back down onto his back.

"Too much effort," he replied. "With a text, you were less likely to blush and annoy me. If I'd come outside and asked you myself, you probably would have gone stupid and thought that it meant some sort of personal interest in you on my behalf. A text is much more generic." Lucie stared at him, blushing unwittingly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "For goodness sake…would it be easier if you went back outside and I texted you my questions rather than actually spoke to you?" Lucie pulled herself together and shook her head firmly.

"What do you want to know?" she asked, trying to sound confident.

"Well, as you have so kindly already told John your life story, I don't need to know anything more about that. My one question, though, is about the man who kidnapped you." Lucie paled.

"Yes? What about him?" she whispered, and Sherlock leaned forward, pressing his fingertips together.

"Tell me about him." Lucie gulped and tried to recall all the information she could about her captor.

"Well, he had dark hair and dark eyes…" she began, and Sherlock huffed impatiently.

"Yes, yes!" he interrupted. "Lovely, lovely…detailed physical descriptions from a young woman – typical. I DON'T CARE. Tell me about _him_, him as a person, what he was like!" Lucie cleared her throat once more before continuing.

"He was ruthless. He killed my father without a second thought and let me go, thinking that I would be dead within the next two days or so. He had the most horrible mood swings. Even though I was his prisoner, he'd show me false affection – kissing me and…" Lucie squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. "…touching me. He had this laugh…a horrible, empty thing." Sherlock was now leaning forward even further, narrowing his eyes in concentration.

"Tell me about his laugh," he said. "His voice…what was his voice like?" Lucie swallowed, wracking her brain for any information that she could remember.

"His voice…his voice was lilting," she said, and Sherlock leant back, paling slightly. "I think it was sort of Irish." She heard John inhale sharply from the other side of the room, and she looked up at him. "What is it?" she asked, looking from John to Sherlock and then back again. They had both paled significantly, and it worried her. "You know him?" she asked, her voice rising a notch. Sherlock nodded wordlessly.

"He's back," he said simply, and Lucie was confused. On the other side of the room, John raked a hand through his hair, his hand shaking. Lucie stood up.

"Tell me what's going on!" she shouted, and Sherlock looked up at her.

"Sit down, woman!" he rose to meet her, and she swiftly obeyed. "We need to be sure that it's him…" He grabbed the sides of Lucie's face and she gasped. "I need you to tell us everything that you remember about him. Everything. I don't care anymore whether they're stupid details or not. Just tell me every single thing about him." Lucie swallowed again, panic rising in her throat, but she held it down and forced her voice not to break.

"Dark hair, dark eyes. Irish accent. Terrible mood swings…" she began, swiftly listing everything that she knew about him. "Texted a lot – signed them 'J'. He always insisted on telling me that his favourite song was 'Staying Alive' by the BeeGees, but he said that staying alive was so dull because it was just staying. He told me to remember that because someone would be interested to hear it someday." Sherlock exhaled slowly; everything that Lucie described fit. There was no other alternative. He looked up at John, who was giving him a look ridden with dread and denial.

"It's him," Sherlock said bluntly, and Lucie looked completely confused. "He's back. Jim Moriarty. The man who was intent on bringing me down…" Lucie went to say something, but the look on his face made her think better of it. "But why did he let you go so easily?" Sherlock jumped up and began to pace the room, tapping his fingertips together absentmindedly. "He said that you would be dead within a couple of days, but if he wanted you dead he would have done it himself. He couldn't really have thought that you would have been dumb enough to die after forty-eight hours on the streets. No, he let you go for a reason…" Sherlock stopped, realisation dawning slowly on his face. "Of course!" he exclaimed, banging his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Lucie looked confused. "He _wanted _you to come to me. He _knew _about that note in your pocket – he knew you would come straight to me! Somehow, he wants to bring me down again, through you. No doubt he knows exactly where you are."

"But what if he really did think I would die?" Lucie asked timidly, and Sherlock looked at her condescendingly.

"He's Jim Moriarty, you fool…the most dangerous man in the world. He wouldn't think that. No, he had a reason to get you to run to me…but why?" Sherlock continued his pacing just as all three of the trio's phones beeped simultaneously. Lucie brought hers out quickly.

So your protector's worked it out at last. Just a word of advice, my dear: don't fall in love with him. It would be a pity to claim his heart when I need to burn it out. Although on second thoughts, perhaps I could use you to burn him. I'll be seeing you soon, my Lucie.

- J

Lucie looked up, panicked, to see Sherlock checking his own phone. He had a similar text from Moriarty:

So my old buddy, I'm back. How do you like your new lodger? I do hope you can see what I found so appealing about her. Have fun solving her mystery.

- J

At the same time, John saw a message on his own phone:

Greetings, Dr Watson. I've always thought of it as a pity really: you could have been so much better working for me. Ah well, too late now. Have fun with Lucie…she can be so much fun.

- J

The trio exchanged panicked glances, and John's phone beeped again.

I know you like her.

- J

John blushed scarlet, and Sherlock gave him a suspicious gaze.

"I have a feeling that we will be seeing a lot more of your captor very soon, Miss Ellery…" he said wearily, just as the doorbell of 221B rang and they all froze.

* * *

**Please review (even just a few words is great by me!) – any constructive criticism or ideas for the future are very welcome! Thanks for reading, and until next chapter! :)**


	6. The Flirtatious Dominatrix

**Oh goody, it's almost June and hammering down with rain, so what better to do than to update my fanfiction! ;)**

* * *

**6: The Flirtatious Dominatrix**

The trio exchanged panicked glances, none of them blinking. Lucie looked desperately over at Sherlock, who leapt up off his bed and began pacing the room. When he reached the door, he slammed his palms against the wood and rested his head between them, desperately trying to clear his mind so that he could think rationally about what they were going to do. After a few moments, he clicked his fingers at John, not looking at him.

"John – go," he said, and John's eyes widened.

"M…me?" he stammered. "Why should _I _go and answer the door?" Sherlock huffed and turned around, leaning his shoulder blades on the door.

"If Lucie goes, he'll know immediately that she's found her way here and will probably kidnap her straight away. If I go, it will only end up getting nasty and we'll be stood downstairs in the cold for far too long. If he wants a proper chat, he'll have to come up to the flat and so he'll know that Lucie is here. Only possible solution: John Watson, the doctor, goes down to meet our favourite Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal. Simple, really." Sherlock spouted all this rapidly and closed his eyes; it obviously all made perfect sense to him. John just looked at him with raised eyebrows, his eyes wide and disbelieving, and his mouth agape.

"Simple?!" he exploded, leaping up from his perch against the wardrobe. "So it wouldn't occur to you that Moriarty would kidnap _me_? Or that he'd just kill me and come up to see you two anyway? I really don't think it's that simple!"

During John's rant, Sherlock let out a long sigh and began studying the palm of his hand. Lucie, unsure of what to do, fiddled with the gold and opal ring that she wore on her right ring finger. Sherlock immediately picked up on her nervous habit and pounced.

"When did she buy you that?" he asked, gesturing to her finger. Lucie looked a little confused, glanced down at her ring and then back up to Sherlock. She blushed crimson.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said sharply, dropping her hands behind her back and looking down at her feet. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, readying himself for a full-blown deduction, but John stepped in.

"Sherlock!" he said. "What are we going to do about the doorbell?" Sherlock looked at John as if the answer were obvious. He slapped him on the back of the shoulder.

"Off you go, John!" Sherlock said jovially. "Go and meet our friend!" Placing a hand on each of John's shoulders, he shoved him out of the room and slammed the door on him, just as the doorbell rang again. Lucie listened to John's inane muttering outside for a few seconds, before he stumped off towards the door.

Lucie stole a quick glance up at Sherlock to see his reaction, but his face was totally unreadable. He merely tapped the tips of his two forefingers together, deep in thought.

"Do you really think that it's Moriarty at the door?" she asked softly, jerking him out of his thoughts. Sherlock bit his bottom lip.

"No," he said, and Lucie's eyes widened. "I don't think he will pounce this early. He'll wait until he's sure that I'm going to protect you, count on the fact that I will develop feelings for you, and then he will kidnap you and possibly kill you, to break my heart and bring me down." Lucie blinked at this. How could Sherlock sound so calm about the fact that the most dangerous man in the world was going to kill her sooner or later?

"But then who's at the door…?" Lucie wondered aloud, and Sherlock shot her a fleeting glance.

"Nobody of any significance, I don't expect. Although the most likely suspect is our landlady, Mrs Hudson. Go down and meet her, if you like. I expect John's already talking to her." Sherlock pushed the door open with his foot, and Lucie hesitantly made her way downstairs. Exactly as Sherlock had predicted, John was stood at the door, casually chatting to an older lady who had her arms full of shopping. The approaching figure of Lucie caught Mrs Hudson's attention, and she looked up, fixing the young woman with a large smile.

"Oh, you must be John's new girlfriend!" she said, beaming. Lucie blushed. "I thought I heard John's voice earlier, but I didn't like to interrupt. You know what he's like…" Mrs Hudson winked at the younger woman, and Lucie turned crimson.

"Oh no, ma'am," she stammered. "I'm afraid you've got it wrong. I'm not John's girlfriend…" John quickly joined her.

"She…er…she turned up on the doorstep earlier, Mrs Hudson, with a lethal sedative running through her veins. I took her up to 221B to look after her." A look of horror crossed Mrs Hudson's face.

"John!" she exclaimed. "I would have thought better of you! I certainly hope you didn't do anything indecent to the poor girl while she was unconscious!" Both John and Lucie choked at this, and Lucie quickly came to John's aid.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mrs Hudson," she said. "John sat with me until I regained consciousness, and then we chatted. Sherlock popped in and out, and now that he's back, he was just asking me some questions about my father. You see, he was murdered and told me to come to Sherlock for protection. So here I am." Mrs Hudson's heart melted for Lucie, and she quickly threaded an arm around her shoulder.

"Oh, you poor dear!" she said, steering her away towards her flat. Lucie shot a desperate look at John over her shoulder; he could do little more than chuckle at Mrs Hudson's reaction. He followed close behind them, as Lucie desperately tried to free herself from the older woman's embrace. She finally succeeded, and planted a kiss on each of Mrs Hudson's cheeks.

"Thank you so much, Mrs Hudson…" she said politely. "But I think I ought to be getting back to 221B. Sherlock still had lots of questions to ask me." The older woman nodded kindly at her.

"Of course, dearie," she said. "But don't forget to pop down and see me every so often. It would be lovely to have another woman in the house to chat with." Lucie smiled and nodded.

"Of course I will, ma'am." She quickly turned to leave, John close behind, and they shut the door to Mrs Hudson's flat behind them, both dissolving into giggles.

"And just for the record, I didn't do anything 'indecent' while you were unconscious," John said, wiping the tears away. Lucie grinned and laughed again.

"I should think not, Dr Watson!" she said, mimicking Mrs Hudson's tone. "I would expect better from you!" John smiled widely at her, glad to enjoy some saner company than Sherlock's for once. He had a feeling that he and Lucie were going to have a very strong friendship.

But his heart sank when he thought of how Lucie had blushed when Sherlock spoke to her earlier. Of course, his flatmate was the tall, dark, handsome one who attracted the attention of the ladies. No doubt, Lucie would go after Sherlock for all she was worth…and leaving him in Sherlock's shadow once again. It made him sick sometimes.

"Come on. Sherlock hadn't finished questioning you," he said curtly, heading back up the stairs and leaving Lucie feeling confused. Had she said something to upset her new friend? She sighed. Why was it that she could never have a successful relationship with anyone? Her and John had been having fun just a few seconds before, but now he had gone off without so much as an indication of what was the matter with him. She had hoped that John could be like a brother to her, but it seemed that would no longer be the case…for whatever reason.

Involuntarily, her thoughts turned to Sherlock: his blue-green-silver eyes, his black curls, his long fingers…she wondered if he had a girlfriend. If he didn't, she would be very surprised, but also perhaps slightly relieved. Just once, she wanted to have a normal relationship with someone, and maybe Sherlock Holmes could be the man for her this time.

"Are you coming?" John snapped at her from the top of the stairs, jerking her out of her fantasy. She nodded timidly and followed him up the staircase, back into 221B where Sherlock was sat typing furiously at John's laptop. She heard John huff in annoyance and he walked over to Sherlock, slamming the laptop lid shut and removing it from the table. Sherlock just looked at him with one eyebrow raised.

"For goodness sake, Sherlock!" John cried. "That laptop is password protected! How many more times to I have to spell it out to you? I changed it after you so helpfully meddled with it last time, so how on earth did you guess it this time?" After John's rant, Sherlock just leaned back and looked at him.

"On the floor next to the TV is the 'Lord of the Rings' box set – I know you've been watching them this week because I've heard the unsavoury noises of all the battle scenes from my room, so it's bound to be something to do with that. Significant characters: Frodo, Sam, Pippin, Merry. Played by Elijah Wood, Sean Astin, Billy Boyd, Dominic Monaghan respectively, but you wouldn't have chosen any of their names – too strange, slightly gay-stalkerish. No, you would have used the name of one of the female characters that you fancy, and who is there? Arwen, Galadriel, Eowyn…well I know for a fact that you have a thing for brunettes rather than blondes–" Sherlock shot a pointed glance at Lucie, who grew suddenly conscious of her auburn curls. "–so the only character that you could have chosen from was Arwen. Played by Liv Tyler. You wouldn't have set your password as 'livtyler' – too obvious – but 'tylerliv'…ooh, much more mysterious and less likely for your brilliant high functioning sociopathic friend to work out. Just to add a touch more mystery, you added the name of Liv Tyler's 'Lord of the Rings' on-screen lover, Aragorn, to the end of it. Case solved: John Watson's new password? 'tylerlivaragorn'. Simple really."

He looked at John innocently, who stood glaring at Sherlock. Meanwhile, Lucie just stood with her mouth open in disbelief.

"Amazing…" she whispered, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her.

"Oh, please," he said. "John went through all of this when we first met. Get used to my deductions, they happen all the time." Lucie gave him a half smile.

"Really?" she asked sceptically, and Sherlock gave her a scathing gaze, pressing his fingertips together and resting his feet on the coffee table.

"Really. For instance, I could tell you right at this moment virtually everything about yourself and John just by the way you are stood and your mannerisms." Lucie still looked sceptical.

"Try me," she said softly. Sherlock took a deep breath in and began analysing rapidly.

"Your hair – it's in long auburn curls but not styled that way. They're clearly natural curls, but not tight ringlets. If they were tight, I could tell you that both of your parents were of foreign descent, but the fact that they're auburn and not black says that one of them was Mediterranean and the other was English through and through. The ever so slight tan on your skin backs that up – you've never visited your parent's birthplace but they're skin is naturally coffee coloured so you inherited part of it, although it was balanced out by the white gene on the side of your other parent. Your father worked for the Yard virtually all his life, and grew up with Lestrade, so he was the English one. Your mother was Mediterranean – black curls means Italy – but she never took you to visit. She came to England some years ago, married your father and had children…but is that really what happened? Probably not. She must have had a bad relationship with her own parents if she never took you back there – why else would she leave her native land so readily and then never take her own daughter back there? No, your grandparents kicked her out when she came to England on a college trip, got pregnant and then went back to them bearing a child. So she did the only thing she could – return to the man who knocked her up in the first place and seek his help. Luckily for her, your father was all too willing to take her in and marry her, and thus the story begins." Sherlock finished with a flourish and rubbed the tip of his nose. "Would you like me to go on?" he asked. Lucie shook her head disbelievingly.

"No…no, I think that will suffice…" Sherlock nodded curtly, and Lucie stared at him in wonder.

John didn't miss the look in her eyes as she looked at his friend, and he turned away, sickened. Just this once, he wanted a woman that could see past the mysterious stranger of Sherlock, and could see that his flatmate was an okay bloke too. He may not have been a brilliant detective like Sherlock, but he thought that his company was relatively enjoyable.

But no, it seemed that he was doomed to be in Sherlock's shadow forever, with no nice young woman ever taking an interest in him, the overlooked sidekick.

"I need some air," John snapped, grabbing his coat and heading out of 221B, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

John walked around the busy streets of London for a good hour and a half, lost in his own thoughts. It was only when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket that he was brought back to earth, and he quickly checked it. When he saw the message, his blood ran cold.

Poor little Johnny. Nobody ever fancies him, do they? No, everyone loves Sherlock instead. You know Johnny, if you worked with me, I'm sure we could get some pretty young woman interested in you. Have a think. You know where to find me.  
- J

John shoved his phone back in his pocket angrily and picked up his pace, burying his hands in the pockets of his jeans and keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. Heading further into the outskirts of the city, he hardly noticed when he bumped into a woman.

"I'm so sorry…" he mumbled, going to make his way around her, but a hand on his wrist stopped him.

"Good afternoon, Dr Watson…" she purred. "What a pleasant surprise to see you here." John looked up at the woman who he had bumped into, and could hardly believe his eyes.

"Miss…Adler?" he asked hesitantly, and she flashed him a blinding smile.

"John, you remembered!" she said, clapping her hands together like a small child.

"But…you…" John stammered, struggling to form the words. "Executed…?" he finished unsurely; Irene Adler just looked at him with a smile.

"Oh John, you are adorable when you get flustered," she whispered into his ear. "No, I was quite clearly not executed. I merely have some questions for you…about the new resident of 221B. Do you know any decent cafés around here?" She looked around fleetingly, and John just looked confused. "Ah, I think that one will do nicely," she said, pointing to a small restaurant on the other side of the street. To John, it looked posher than the Ritz, but he said nothing and just nodded his assent.

Irene threaded her arm through John's as they made their way across the road, making him feel mightily uncomfortable. He cleared his throat several times, unsure of whether to make conversation, and she watched him with a small smile on her face.

"Ah, Miss Adler!" the moustachioed restaurant owner exclaimed as they entered the building, and she merely inclined her head politely to him. "How nice to see you again! And who is your gentleman friend?"

"This is Dr John Watson," Irene said cordially. "I would very much like a table for two, please. Oh, and would you happen to have any of those chocolate pots left over? I could _murder _one of those. Some summer berries would be good too, if you have any." The man nodded, enamoured, and disappeared off to fetch what Irene had asked for.

She, meanwhile, led John to a small table in the corner and beckoned him to sit down. She took the chair opposite and removed her coat, gesturing for him to do the same. John swallowed. She wore a tight apple-green dress with a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination. Clearing his throat, he concentrated on keeping his eyes on her face and not her chest, and he ran a hand through his hair in agitation. She smirked at him.

"You're so on edge, John," she said. John nodded curtly; he needed to focus on getting this whole experience over with as quickly as possible.

Just at that moment, the plump manager who had greeted them earlier appeared, donning a bottle of champagne (complete with two flutes), and a platter of summer fruits. In the middle of the large plate sat a bowl full of steaming melted chocolate, and John felt a twist in his stomach. He knew that chocolate and strawberries were a typical meal for a long-term couple, and he felt uncomfortable with the restaurant manager thinking that he and Miss Adler were together.

"Here's your fruit as requested, Miss Adler," the manager said. "And I threw in some champagne too. On the house. I thought it may help to relax your gentleman friend here." He winked at John, who felt decidedly uncomfortable, and Irene shot him a glance too.

"Thank you, Antonio," she said, clearly inviting the portly man to take his leave, which he swiftly did, shooting a final wink at John.

Irene let out a sigh, leant forwards and picked a strawberry off the platter, drenched it in chocolate and placed it into her mouth slowly and deliberately. John cleared his throat once again, unsure of what to do. Irene looked up at him, an amused expression on her face.

"There's no need to look so uncomfortable, John," she said, dipping a raspberry into the chocolate. "Please, eat." John looked at the platter before realising that she was holding the raspberry for him to eat. Reluctantly, he ate it from her fingers, and she leant back, looking smug. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Antonio winking at him and miming a kiss while pointing at Irene.

Miss Adler carefully poured them each a flute of champagne and passed John his. Without thinking, he drained the glass in five seconds, but Irene merely raised an eyebrow and refilled the glass. She helped herself to more fruit, and John tapped his fingers on his knee, wanting to break the awkward silence.

"You said you wanted me to tell you about…the young woman who is staying with us?" he asked. Irene looked up, dabbed her lips with a napkin and took a sip of champagne. She nodded.

"Lucie Ellery," she stated, and John tried not to look startled at how she knew the identity of their new guest. Irene rolled her eyes. "Oh, please," she said. "I do have my sources. Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean that I'm incapable of finding things out for myself." John shook his head vigorously and rubbed his nose.

"Yes…no…of course…I know…" he stammered, and Irene smiled.

"I merely want to know your feelings for her," she said. John choked on his sip of champagne.

"My…feelings?" he said, bewildered. "You brought me here to eat chocolate, strawberries and champagne with you, at one of London's fanciest places, to ask me how I _feel _about this new girl that I've virtually only just met?" Irene smirked.

"Precisely," she purred. "Of course, I could make it worth your while too, if you so wish…" she pulled down the neckline of her dress ever so slightly and leant forward at a particular angle, affording John the best possible view. He cleared his throat nervously and looked straight at her face, forcing his eyes not to wander where she wanted them to.

"No, thank you," he said firmly. "If you want, I can tell you about Lucie, but I do not require any…payment." Irene sat back, looking slightly put out.

"As you wish," she said. "Now, tell me everything about her. I know you like her, John. And I know you're bitter about the fact that women always fall at Sherlock's feet and just view you as the funny little sidekick." John's eyes widened. How did she know all this? "So there really isn't much point in hiding anything from me." John gulped and nodded. He had a feeling it was going to be a long evening, although the two glasses of champagne that he had drunk were starting to make him feel ever so slightly more relaxed. He supposed that there were worse people to be in a restaurant with than Miss Irene Adler.

* * *

**Please review (even just a few words is great by me!) – any constructive criticism or ideas for the future are very welcome! Thanks for reading, and until next chapter! :)**


	7. The Personality Changes

**7: The Personality Changes**

Back at 221B, Lucie stared at the door through which John had just made his abrupt exit. She felt confused – had she done something wrong? She looked over at Sherlock, hoping that he could offer some explanation, but he merely rolled his eyes and seized hold of John's laptop again, opening it and continuing to type rapidly. Lucie looked between the curly-haired man and the door, and then back again, wondering whether or not to ask the obvious question. Just as she was opening her mouth and taking a breath to speak, Sherlock beat her to it.

"Nowhere in particular," he said, not even glancing up at her. Lucie was half confused and half amazed – had he read her mind?

"How…?" she began, but Sherlock cut her off.

"I know John," he said. "He has moods like this. Kind of like PMT really…if he wasn't a man," he explained, Lucie pursed her lips.

"Right," she said. "So…he'll be back soon, won't he?"

Not looking at her, Sherlock nodded.

"Oh yes," he said. "He'll just walk around London for a bit, work up an anger, walk it off and then come back as though everything is perfectly normal. He does it all the time."

Crossing the room to a chair, Lucie sank down in it and nodded, although she still felt worried about the reason for John's departure. She somehow felt as though she had something to do with it, because of the sudden change in John's mood when they had been outside Mrs Hudson's flat. She couldn't think that she had said or done anything in particular…perhaps Sherlock was right, and John just had a quick mood change. She still couldn't fathom the reason for his sudden curtness towards her, though, and decided to try and ask him when he got back.

"So when will he be back?" Lucie pressed, and Sherlock looked at her, breathing a long, impatient sigh.

"I don't know exactly, do I?" he hissed. "Now could you please stop talking, stop thinking, stop doing _everything_. I'm trying to work." He looked back at John's computer screen and resumed his furious typing, leaving Lucie feeling uncomfortable. She sat on her hands and looked around the room, occasionally glancing at Sherlock who did not even acknowledge her presence. After a few minutes of the awkward silence, she tried a seemingly innocent question.

"So…do you have a girlfriend?" she said casually, causing Sherlock to slam his hands down on the table top in frustration and let out a growl of anger.

"No," he whispered through gritted teeth. "I am married to my work and certainly not interested in a relationship, least of all with you, a young woman who I have known for approximately twenty-six hours and has already succeeded in interrupting my train of thought at least seven times. Have you not got anything else that you can do? Colouring or something?" He fixed her with an icy glare, clearly wanting her to leave. Lucie hastily exited the room, willing the tears not to prick the back of her eyes. She could hardly believe the hurtful things that Sherlock had just said to her. It had just been an innocent question, not a suggestion that she wanted to be his girlfriend! For once in her life, she had thought that she could try and have a normal, natural conversation with someone and make a good start with them; today she had succeeded in losing both of her new potential friends, as far as she could see.

She slammed the door to the living room shut behind her, and slid down it, curling up in a ball at the foot of the doorframe and allowing the tears to come, fast but silently. It wasn't fair. She just wanted some real, genuine friends for once…but it seemed that she wasn't even granted that privilege.

* * *

Miss Adler leaned forward again to pluck a blueberry off the platter, and John averted his eyes uncomfortably. He was very aware of her curvaceous figure that filled her extraordinarily tight dress, and it made him feel rather awkward that she kept flaunting herself at him.

"So, dear John," she purred, flicking the now chocolate-soaked blueberry into her mouth. "Tell me exactly what happened. How did you come by…Miss Ellery?"

John cleared his throat and rubbed his thumbnail with his forefinger absentmindedly, trying to clear his head and think rationally. Finally, he clasped his hands together and placed them firmly on the table, preparing to begin his story.

"It was about three o'clock in the morning," he said. "Sherlock was playing the violin which was annoying me, so I went out into the living room and…" he paused. How could he explain that he had shot a hole clean through the middle of the instrument? "…disposed of it for him," he finished; Irene raised an amused eyebrow.

"Would you care to elaborate?" she said smugly, and John couldn't help but laugh slightly.

"I shot it with my gun," he said, trying to repress his smile. Irene let out a genuine laugh and gestured for him to continue, which he readily did, explaining the events that happened that night: marching Sherlock back to his room, and Sherlock's supposed escape. "Then the doorbell rang, and I thought it was Sherlock, so I shouted abuse at the door for a bit, ready to punch him when he turned up smugly on the doorstep…except it wasn't him. When I opened the door, Lucie was stood there instead."

Miss Adler leaned forward, her interest piqued, and fixed her eyes on John's face intently. For once, there was nothing provocative in her actions – she just seemed genuinely intrigued by Lucie's story.

"What did she look like?" she asked quietly. "Tell me exactly what you saw."

"She was wearing a red waterproof coat," John said, after thinking for a few moments. "It had the hood up. She lurched forward to hold onto the doorframe, and asked for Sherlock. At first, I thought that she was drunk, but I checked her pulse and it was clear that she had a lethal sedative running through her veins. So I quickly scooped her up and carried her upstairs, by which point she was already unconscious. I got Sherlock out of his room…where I'd locked him…and told him to come and see her, although he wasn't too keen to start with. Oh, she had this note in her pocket…" John handed the note to Irene who grabbed it and began to study it with keen interest, her eyes skimming over the letters. She nodded and gestured for him to continue. He quickly re-laid the events that had happened. He told her about Lucie's nightmare and what had happened between her and Sherlock, and his deduction about her. All the while, Irene listened intently, and when he had finished, she pressed her forefingers to the table and looked deep in thought.

"Well, this all makes sense, John," she said, and John could still hardly believe her change in personality. Gone was the flirtatious dominatrix – this was an ordinary woman who wanted to know everything about the situation. He didn't even mind that she was calling him by his first name. "But one thing that you have yet to tell me…is exactly why you were wandering London in a fit of anger."

John looked sheepish and blushed, causing Irene to smirk.

"Ah, I see how it is…" she said teasingly. "Lucie has shown an immediate interest in Sherlock, but you want her to like you. After all, you were the one who rescued her, weren't you? Just for once, you want a girl who can love you instead of just seeing you as Sherlock's sidekick. You're sick of being in Sherlock's shadow, aren't you?"

John couldn't look at her. He felt a slight sting at the back of his eyes which he quickly forced away. He nodded swiftly, and to his surprise, he saw Irene's eyes melt with compassion.

"Well…thank you for telling me all of this, John," she said softly, and he gave her a small smile. He much preferred Irene when she was like this, and not constantly flirting with him. He swallowed hard.

"It's not that I fancy Lucie…" he said. "But I'd just like her to be able to notice me too, and not just Sherlock."

"How do you think Lucie views Sherlock?" Irene asked cautiously, and John couldn't hide an amused smile.

"She fancies the pants off him already," he half-laughed, and Irene smiled. "She likes his eyes."

"Don't they all?" said Irene, rolling her eyes. "So she likes him?" she pressed, and John nodded without hesitation.

"I think it might take some time for her to understand that he's not interested in anybody," he said, and Irene smiled sadly. She knew what that felt like.

"But you don't think that she'll give up easily?" she asked, and John shook his head.

"No way," he said firmly. "For her to even notice me, I'd probably have to snatch her from the jaws of a great white shark." He hesitated. "Although I'm not even sure that would work, to be honest."

"Well, John," said Irene, gently covering his hand with her own. John flinched slightly but did not move, not wanting Miss Adler's usually suggestive personality to return. "All you can do is befriend her. At least she can view you as a brother figure, even if not as a potential mate." John coloured slightly. "And who knows, one day…if she carries on the way she is, Sherlock may hurt her almost beyond repair. At least you can be there to help her in her time of need." She gave John another small smile, and he swallowed.

"Thank you, Miss Adler," he said politely. "I'll do that." The pair seemed to view this as their cue to stand, and they both did quickly, donning their coats once again.

Antonio was over to their table like a shot, and John could see that the sliver of Irene's true personality that he had seen was firmly shut away once again. Gone was the sensitive, concerned woman…Irene Adler, the flirtatious dominatrix was back – the woman who wheedled her way into men's beds to find out information and was proud of it.

"So Miss Adler…how was your date?" Antonio asked eagerly, and John started to protest.

"We're just friends, really…she's not my date," he said, looking at his feet, and he saw Irene smirk out of the corner of her eye. She feigned a hurt expression.

"Oh John, you never can see when a woman is interested in you," she said, giving him a slow, sultry and deliberate wink. John turned crimson, and Antonio grinned widely, looking from one to the other.

"Can we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?" he said eagerly, the Italian in him clearly shining through. John nearly choked while Irene just looked amused.

"We'll see…" she said, and John coughed loudly. Antonio gave him another wink and mimed a kiss at Irene. John looked daggers at him.

"Well, when he does pop the question, Miss Adler, be sure to tell me first!" he said excitedly. "I've known you since you were a tot, and I think that _I _should be the first to know." He puffed out his chest pompously, and Irene rolled her eyes at John while Antonio wasn't looking. She plastered the fake smile back on her face.

"Of course," she said rapidly, grabbing John's hand. "Well, thank you for everything, Antonio. I'm sure we'll be seeing you soon…" She quickly exited, towing John along with her and leaving behind an enamoured Antonio. The plump manager quickly shook himself and got back to work, a large and stupid grin all over his face.

* * *

After about ten minutes sat outside the living room door, Lucie's tears had ceased and she found herself wondering about what to do next. She decided that she fancied a bath (she had not had one for a week or more) and set about finding the bathroom. Peeking in the various doors, she eventually found it, but was dismayed to see that there was no bath. Of course. She mentally slapped herself; she needed to realise that this was a flat, and not anything like the house in which she was brought up. Most houses these days didn't have a bath, only a shower.

Still, she thought that a shower would easily suffice, providing that it was long and hot. She quickly grabbed a towel off the rail, locked the door behind her and stripped out of her clothes. She studied herself in the mirror; she could still see the lash marks over her ribcage and back, and of course, there was still the faint stain of blood on the inside of her thigh…she quickly shook herself and stepped into the shower, turning the knob various different ways until it shot out a jet of freezing cold water. She screamed and hopped from foot to foot, adjusting the temperature and manner at which it fired water at her, until it was finally beautifully warm. She stepped underneath it and sighed in contentment, running her hands through her now soaking wet curls.

She began to think about the events of the day. She was still worried about John: where was he? Why did he leave so suddenly? When would he be back? She was also still stung by Sherlock's harsh words. She mentally scolded herself for feeling so bothered by what he thought about her, but she couldn't help it. She had never met anyone like Sherlock, and she desperately wanted to befriend him, but it seemed like she had blown her only shot at that now.

Surfacing from her thoughts for a second, she looked at the small wire rack in the corner of the shower, hoping to find some form of shampoo. However, she found nothing but a cheap ASDA Value Shower Gel for Men, which she didn't imagine would take too kindly to being lathered through her hair. Thinking back to her days at guide camp, she racked her brain for what they had used as a shampoo then. Smiling when it hit her, she swiftly turned the shower off and stepped out, wrapping herself in a towel.

She felt slightly self-conscious at stepping back into the living room where Sherlock was wearing nothing but a towel, but she didn't really have much choice. As it was, he barely even looked up when she entered.

"Do you have any bicarbonate of soda and vinegar?" she asked confidently, partly enjoying the ever so slight look of surprise on his face that did not go unnoticed. He narrowed his eyes at her and gave her a quick survey up and down.

"Kitchen," he said, looking back to the computer. She quickly headed to the kitchen and found the two items without too much difficulty – they were both on the kitchen surfaces anyway, from Sherlock's experiments. She also grabbed two bottles to use. When she entered the lounge once more, Sherlock was watching her with narrowed eyes.

"Why?" he asked suspiciously, and she merely smirked.

"Shampoo," she said simply. "I can't wash my hair with ASDA Value Shower Gel for Men," Lucie threw him a glance, enjoying his confusion, and then made her way back into the bathroom, where she swiftly locked the door again and set about mixing a tablespoon of the bicarbonate of soda with some water in one bottle, and then doing the same with the vinegar in the other bottle. After giving the two a good shake, she stepped back into the shower and quickly turned the water back on; it didn't take as long to warm up this time. She stood back under the hot stream of water and sighed contentedly, before working away at her scalp with her two makeshift shampoos. She was glad that she could remember it from guide camp when she was younger, although she had only gone for one summer.

Emptying her mind and enjoying the soothing sensation of the water, she soon finished her shower and stepped out onto the bath mat. After swiftly drying herself and wringing her hair out, she redressed and headed back out into the corridor. She paused. She wasn't sure which room to go in.

After a few seconds of thought, she opted to go for John's room. After all, he had offered it to her when she first arrived. She quickly opened the door, slipped in and then shut it behind her before crossing over to the bed and throwing herself down on her back, on top of the covers. It wasn't long before she felt her eyes slipping closed, and she was soon asleep.

* * *

Irene finally let go of John's hand when they were a good few shops away from the restaurant. She ran a hand over the top of her hair and sighed.

"Well, John, I suppose this is where we part ways," she said, giving him a genuine smile. "Look – here is my phone number. If anything happens with Lucie, _anything _at all, please text me and let me know." John nodded and slipped the small piece of paper into his pocket. He held out a hand cordially for her to shake, which she accepted.

"Goodbye, Miss Adler," he said with a smile. "I hope to be seeing you soon. Thank you for…everything." She smiled at him again, and he shoved his hands back in his pockets, preparing for the journey back to 221B.

"I'll be phoning you tomorrow afternoon," she said. "Just to…you know…see how she is…" Her voice sounded shaky, and John raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He had never heard the great Irene Adler sound unsure of herself. He gave her a polite nod.

"Of course," he said. "I'll speak to you tomorrow, then." He gave her one last smile before turning on his heel and walking back towards the centre of London.

"John!" Irene called out, and he turned to face her again. "Just…look after her, won't you?" she said, and he nodded, although he was confused. He waved again and turned back to his original course, not looking back to see the single tear roll down Irene's face.

* * *

**Okay, so as per usual, please review! I love to know what you guys think – is characterisation okay etc. Any ideas on why Irene is so interested in Lucie? Obviously I know, but have you guys got any ideas? Please leave me a review – I honestly don't care how long or short. Thank you just for reading, and until the next chapter! :)**


	8. The Awkward Return

**Thank you to my reviewers on the last upload – two new reviewers! Yay! Please keep them coming, everybody! I am sorry about the lack of updates – stupid exams have been getting in the way! Also apologies for the chapter being very short, but it is more of a filler than anything else until the next chapter.**

**Anyway, I hope everyone is enjoying the story, and without further ado…**

* * *

**8: The Awkward Return**

Burying his hands in his pockets, John swiftly walked back towards the city centre, still reeling from the unusual encounter with Miss Adler. He couldn't help but wonder exactly why she took such an interest in Lucie, for as far as he knew, they had never met. Lucie hadn't said anything about Irene, but it was clear that Miss Adler wanted to know everything she could about Lucie, and wanted John to make sure that she was alright and stayed out of trouble. At least he could do that for her, and a part of him was actually looking forward to speaking to Irene the next day.

John half laughed: he never thought he'd say that in his lifetime.

Quickly weaving his way in and out of the businessmen and women who were making their way home from work at rush hour, he felt his phone vibrate twice in his pocket. Trying to make his way over to a less crowded area, John stopped in the doorway of a fish and chip shop and drew his phone out. Not for the first time that day, his heart skipped a beat when he read the message.

Aww, so Johnny is going to look after Lucie for baby Miss Adler. How adorable.

- J

John gulped and quickly flicked over to the next message.

It wouldn't occur to you to ask exactly why she is so interested in her, then?

- J

Tapping his teeth with his fingernails, John stood in the doorway, unsure of what to do. He obviously wasn't about to reply to the texts, but he couldn't ignore the knowing doubt that Jim Moriarty had planted in his mind. Why was Irene so interested in Lucie? She couldn't be working for Moriarty…could she?

John quickly shook the thought away. No, she was better than that. The concern that he had seen in Irene's eyes earlier was genuine, he was sure of it. As a doctor, he spent his whole life reading people's true emotions, and he was certain that Irene wasn't working for Moriarty. But then, why was she so intent on keeping track of Lucie? John exhaled slowly, trying to think of any links that Irene could have with Lucie. He came up with various ideas, but none of them seemed particularly plausible.

Sighing once again, he put his hands back in his pockets and quickly made his way back out onto the bustling street, heading back towards Baker Street.

* * *

Lucie awoke a couple of hours later to a soft knock on her door. She quickly sat up and rubbed her eyes to try and revive herself.

"Come in," she said softly, and was surprised to see John come through the doorway. "John!" she said with a smile, pleased to see him back. John gave her a small smile and looked at his feet.

"I…er…" he stammered. "I…um…I just wanted to say sorry for storming off earlier," he said, tapping his fingers together nervously. "I…er…I just got a bit angry over something…something Sherlock did. But I've just been for a quick walk so I feel a bit better now. But yes, I just wanted to apologise. I was very rude to you, and you didn't deserve it."

"Look, John," said Lucie, and he looked at her. She patted the bed covers beside her and he awkwardly sat down. "It's no problem. We all have our moods. Don't worry about it." She smiled kindly and he returned her sentiment with a small smile of his own.

She patted his shoulder and drew him into a quick hug, smiling kindly as she drew back. John looked at her, slightly stunned at her willingness to forgive him quite so easily. Just as they shared another quick smile, Lucie's hand still on John's shoulder, John's phone went off with a rather…unusual sound. Lucie's eyes widened.

"What the hell is that?" she asked indignantly, and John blushed scarlet.

"My phone, by the sound of it," he muttered, knowing exactly who the message was from. He recognized the sound from when Irene had changed the sound on Sherlock's phone when they had first met her, but he couldn't think how she could possibly have got hold of his phone to change it when they were at the restaurant. Either way, he groaned, completely embarrassed and feeling sure that Lucie got the wrong idea. To his surprise, he saw her giggling.

"Your…phone?" she asked incredulously. "Does your phone usually make that noise?"

"No…" John mumbled. "It's a long story. Someone has changed it for a joke, and I didn't know. So now they've texted me and it's gone off with that noise." He felt completely humiliated and Lucie raised an eyebrow.

"Right…" she said with a half-smile, and John gave her a withering look.

"Excuse me," he said, quickly slipping outside of his room to look at his phone. He wondered why Irene had texted him so early on, when she had only said that she would call him the next day. Pulling out his mobile, he had a quick look at the message.

How is she doing? I need you to get Sherlock and Lucie out of the flat. Tonight, por favor. I have something I want to tell you that I should have said earlier.

- IA xx

P.S. Do you like the message tone? ;)

John groaned. He had spoken to Irene less than an hour before, and now here she was, wanting to talk to him again. What could be so important that he needed to get Sherlock and Lucie out of the flat? In her text, Irene said that it was something she should have told him earlier, so – although he hated to admit it – his interest was piqued.

Sighing, he knew that he had to admit defeat to the dominatrix once again. He decided to reply to her first, and then try and make arrangements to make Sherlock and Lucie leave the flat.

He quickly typed:

Very funny with the alert sound. She is fine – I was talking to her when your message came through. More than a little embarrassing. And I'm on the case. Will text you when they're out for certain.

- JW

Quickly turning his phone onto silent (the last thing he needed was _that _noise going off in front of Sherlock), he casually walked into the living room, where Sherlock lay sprawled out on the couch, his long legs outstretched and his ankles crossed.

"Coffee, Sherlock?" he asked, and Sherlock looked up, as if only just noticing that he was there.

"Sounds wonderful, John," he said. "You know how I like it."

John inclined his head, feeling more than a little like a butler, and went out into the kitchen to boil the kettle. As he waited for it, he tried to formulate a plan in his head of how to get rid of the other two. He felt certain that Sherlock would see straight through any lie that he made up, so he felt that those efforts were futile. But he couldn't think of anything else to do…

Sherlock's voice from the next room startled him out of his thoughts.

"And, John?" he called. "I'm taking Lucie down to the Yard later to talk to Lestrade. No need for you to come; we can fill you in on all the details later."

John almost jumped in triumph. For once, he didn't have to do anything. No, Sherlock had gone and made his own arrangements just as he wanted him to. Quickly pouring the boiling water from the kettle into two mugs, he stirred a teaspoon of instant coffee into each. He reached for the sugar and popped two spoons into Sherlock's, but left his. To his own, he poured a splash of milk, and left Sherlock's black. A mug in each hand, he returned to the living room, privately triumphant.

He handed his friend his coffee, still smiling slightly, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

"What are you so happy about?" he asked suspiciously.

"Nothing!" John replied quickly, his voice a few notes higher than usual. Sherlock didn't look convinced. "I…er…just apologised to Lucie for being an idiot earlier, and now we're all good. So that's…er…good." He cursed inwardly; he sounded so stupid, and he knew it. Either way, just this once, Sherlock seemed willing to let it slip, merely raising his eyebrows and taking a sip of his coffee.

"Go and get Lucie," he said into his mug. "Tell her to bring her coat."

John looked at the door and then at Sherlock, pursing his lips.

"Why don't you?" he said, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's so _far_," he said childishly, and John huffed impatiently and stood up, walking back to his room where he knew Lucie to be. He knocked on the door softly.

"Lucie?" he called, and she opened the door with a smile. "Sherlock says to get your coat. You're going down to the police station with him."

Lucie quickly grabbed her red waterproof coat from John's bed and threw it on, her head brimming with questions: where were they going? Why were they going to the police station? Why wasn't John coming with them? Nevertheless, she trusted Sherlock and so made her way to where he was getting up off the sofa and winding his scarf around his neck.

"Come on," he said sharply, grabbing her wrist and dragging her downstairs. John watched them go, slightly startled at Sherlock's abrupt manner, but also pleased that he didn't have to make any arrangements. He quickly texted Irene.

They're gone.

- JW

"Don't wait up, John!" Sherlock yelled from downstairs, just before John heard the door slam shut behind them. He sighed, knowing that his only option now was to wait for Irene.

* * *

**As usual, reviews please! :) Yes, sorry if the chapter is short or whatever, but hopefully there should be one with a bit more action in shortly! Thanks for reading, and until next time! :)**


	9. The Interesting Charade

**9: The Interesting Charade**

John let out a long sigh of relief when he heard the door bang, hardly believing how conveniently Sherlock and Lucie had just left. He felt his phone vibrate in the pocket of his jeans and pulled it out to check it, quickly scanning his new message from Miss Adler.

Brilliant – I'm on my way.  
- IA xxx

John grabbed his coffee from where it sat on the living room table and took a long sip, thinking over what was going to happen. Irene had said that she needed to tell him something, and that she should have told him earlier. He wracked his brains to try and think of something that was so urgent she had to meet up with him again so soon, but could come up with no plausible solutions.

His phone vibrated again and he checked it, expecting another message from Irene.

I hope you know how much I am sacrificing so that you can have your second little chat with Miss Adler.  
- SH

John's jaw dropped and he went red involuntarily. How the hell had Sherlock known that Irene was coming? Come to think of it, how did he know that John and Irene had met up earlier that day, as evidenced by his using the word 'second' in his text message?

How the hell do you know about any of that?  
- JW

Merely seconds after pressing 'Send', he regretted asking. Although most people would refrain from sending inordinately long text messages, he had learned long ago that Sherlock was not like that. Texting was his chosen means of communication, so why would he hesitate to send a text that was at least five hundred words long? The very least that John hoped for was that Sherlock would merely reply with a scathing remark and not actually tell him all his deductions.

If you really want to know, I'll tell you when we get back. But for now, you two had better have something decent to do, because Lucie is annoying the hell out of me. She keeps asking me all these questions and I don't like it. I DON'T LIKE IT, JOHN – WHY IS SHE TRYING TO TALK TO ME?  
- SH

Despite everything, John couldn't help but laugh at Sherlock's indignation. Lucie was clearly making Sherlock angry by making the fatal mistake of attempting to make small talk. He chuckled; Lucie had a long way to go before she realised what to do and what not to do when it came to talking to and living with Sherlock. He had a feeling that Sherlock wouldn't be talking to her by the time they came home, and John would be the one who ended up having to explain what the matter with him was.

Settling down into his armchair, he took another sip of his coffee and waited. He debated for a little while whether to try and find a biscuit from the kitchen, but decided against it in the end. It took too much effort to get up, and they would probably all have been involved in Sherlock's experiments in some way anyway. Either way, he would probably end up biscuitless.

Reaching across for the remote control, he flicked the TV on quickly, trying to find any sort of trashy daytime television to pass half an hour with. After a quick flick, he settled on _Come Dine with Me _on Channel 4, and engrossed himself in watching the pompous, arrogant and self-important people cook their meals.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Sherlock still hadn't let go of her hand, and Lucie couldn't fathom why. She kept looking from his face to his hand and then back again, but couldn't make head or tale of it. He had snapped at her just an hour before, and now he was dragging her through the dark streets of London by the hand. The circumstances would have seemed odd, but she had quickly learned that nothing should be considered odd when Sherlock Holmes was involved.

After making the mistake of trying some small talk, she had kept her mouth shut for the last ten minutes of their excursion, waiting for Sherlock to offer some explanation of why they were rushing off so suddenly. She was having to jog to keep up with his long strides, and was becoming short of breath, having to pant slightly. Sherlock looked round at her, annoyed.

"Do you have to breathe so loudly?" he said pedantically, and Lucie was startled.

"I'm…sorry," she said hesitantly.

"You'll have the whole street after us!" Sherlock huffed and turned back around, pulling her back along with his rapid pace.

After walking for about fifteen more minutes, Sherlock pulled her into a deserted alleyway that looked far too dark and foreboding for her liking. Nevertheless, she trusted him and didn't think that part of his plan was to bring her into an alleyway and murder her.

"What…?" she started to say, but Sherlock clamped a hand over her mouth before she could say anything else, and brought a finger to his lips.

"What are we doing here?" she whispered, almost under her breath.

"I need to get to St Bart's to do some snooping around," he whispered back. "And you have to be my passport in. I need you to pretend that you're injured, okay? That way, I can take you into the hospital, and then while they're tending to your completely fictitious wounds, I can pop down to the morgue and see Molly, my…friend. You have to pretend to have been mugged, attempted rape…whatever. Just make a big fuss; pretend to be unconscious for a little while and then play the role for all that you're worth. You are a very good actress, after all, Miss…Ellery." He said her second name with a raised eyebrow and a look that said 'I don't believe your story for a second'.

Lucie, too surprised by his request to take any notice of his last comment, simply nodded numbly. Although she wasn't going to let on to it, she did feel excited at the prospect of being able to adopt a new personality for a little while, giving Sherlock the time he needed to sneak around and find out whatever he needed to. Sherlock clapped his hands together.

"Splendid!" he said. "Now, do you mind if I punch you? It will just add to the authenticity, after all."

"What?" said Lucie, alarmed at this last prospect. "Is that really the best way of making my injuries more authentic?"

"Well, it's either that or a bullet graze to the arm – whichever you'd prefer," Sherlock said sweetly, and Lucie nodded.

"Okay," she said, squeezing her eyes shut to anticipate the blow. When it came, it wasn't particularly hard, but she felt it tug on a certain area of her face, where Sherlock had probably calculated that it would look the worst but not actually be a serious injury.

"Good," he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "I think the attempted rape story should be the most convincing. Just dishevel your hair a bit…" he ran his hands through her hair, occasionally clenching his fists and tangling it. "Do you have any makeup on you?"

Lucie brought out a red lipstick and black eye pencil from her mackintosh pocket, which Sherlock snatched off her. He applied lipstick to her mouth and then smeared his hand over it, causing it to smudge over her top lip and cheek, and outlined her eyes roughly with the kohl. After instructing her to close her eyes, he smudged the eyeliner too around her eyes, and caused some streaks to run down her face, giving the impression that she had been crying.

He glanced down at the expensive-looking black dress that she wore underneath her red coat. He stripped her of her coat and dropped it on the floor, kicking it away despite her protestations at how cold it was and how she didn't want her dress to be on show. Sherlock merely ignored her protestations and made some quick adjustments to her dress. It had long, sheer sleeves, and he pulled one of them off her shoulder and made a quick rip in the gossamer, paying no heed to her protest. He scrunched up the hem of her dress (which sat just above her knee) and undid the top five small buttons that ran down her sternum, leaving the top chest area completely open. Lucie felt completely uncomfortable, but trusted Sherlock to know exactly what he was doing.

Finally, he stepped back to admire his handiwork, giving a nod of approval.

"Very convincing," he said. "Now all we need you to do is switch on the acting, and we'll be well away. Pretend to be unconscious; go limp. I'll carry you out onto the busy street, try and get 'help', and make a beeline for the hospital. Just don't corpse, whatever you do, or I swear I'll kill you."

Lucie nodded, failing to suppress a small smile of excitement. She did love to act, and this was another role that she had the opportunity to play.

"Okay," she said in a small voice, and Sherlock clapped her on the shoulder with a small smile.

"Okay," he replied. "Off you go." He scooped her up in his arms and Lucie went completely limp, allowing her eyes to slip closed. She had to concentrate now and make sure that she didn't corpse – she had to play the role completely convincingly. She could feel Sherlock running out of the alleyway and out into the street.

"Please!" he shouted, his voice brimming with tears. "It's my girlfriend! She was attacked and I need someone to take us to the hospital! Can anyone help me?"

Lucie was astounded by the change in Sherlock: she had no idea he was such a good actor!

"What's going on here?" Lucie heard a burly voice say. It belonged to a police officer – a typical London bobbie – who was busily inspecting Lucie. Sherlock was still playing the traumatised boyfriend for all it was worth.

"We were just out on a date, and she waited outside while I paid the bill," he quavered, biting his bottom lip. "When I came out, she was gone. I ran looking for her for fifteen minutes when I heard her screaming from that alley over there," he nodded at the alleyway. "When I got there, her attacker had gone but she was unconscious, and like…this." Sherlock looked away from the police officer, forcing tears to stream down his face. "I want to get her to the hospital…"

The policeman nodded understandingly, melting with sympathy for this young man and the woman who he cradled in his arms.

"I'll see what I can do," he said, patting Sherlock's arm and pulling out his walkie talkie. "Hello?" he said into the receiver. "Yes, Bill here. We've got an unconscious girl with her boyfriend here. Attacked – possible rape. Need a car to take her to the hospital. Over."

"Oh, thank you so much!" Sherlock gushed, squeezing Lucie tighter when he felt her body start to shake with the effort of holding in a laugh.

"That's quite alright, young sir," said the policeman with a smile. "The least I can do for an ordinary, lovely young couple like yourselves. The car should be here in five minutes."

Sherlock walked over to a bench on the side of the road, still carrying Lucie, and set her lying across his lap. He then grabbed her shoulders and held her close, beginning to rock her back and forth like the devoted boyfriend, but talking rapidly into her ear.

"When we get in the car, I will say a trigger word at some point, and that's when you need to start pretending to regain consciousness," he whispered quickly. "The trigger phrase is 'I thought I'd lost her'. Okay?"

Lucie gave an almost imperceptible nod which he felt into his shoulder. He was surprisingly pleased with Lucie's performance so far, and the woman who had been annoying him earlier was long gone. She was acting like a true professional, and he was glad. If she had messed up her role, it would have meant that he wouldn't have been able to get to the morgue, but also that they would have both landed in a heap of trouble.

But nothing had happened, and he could sense that Lucie was rather enjoying her role, although he was not a fan of having to turn on the tears to gain sympathy. Nevertheless, some things just had to be done, and this policeman had obviously been completely taken in, which was exactly what he wanted. Grudgingly, he had to admit that Lucie was definitely proving herself, and he felt sure that he could use her impressive skills as an actress in many future cases.

He was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of a police siren coming towards them. He stood up and scooped Lucie up once more; she went completely limp in his arms again.

"Name?" said a surly-looking policeman who got out of the car.

"Underhill," Sherlock said quickly. "Sam Underhill. And this is my girlfriend, Miss Estella Took."

"Very good, sir," said the new policeman. "My name is Sergeant Sidney Buck. We can take her from here, and you can sit in the back with her." He gently lifted Lucie out of Sherlock's arms and into the back seat of the police car, gesturing for Sherlock to slip into the seat beside her, which he did, stroking the hair off her forehead in a concerned manner.

The sergeant swiftly got into the driver's seat and started up the engine and siren, driving down the streets towards St Bart's.

"This must be a pretty harrowing experience for you and the little lady, eh Mister?" he said, and Sherlock nodded vigorously, deciding to throw the trigger phrase in shortly.

"Oh, yes," he gushed, dissolving into tears again. "It was horrible. I mean, one minute Estella and I were sharing strawberries and chocolate…and the next…I don't like to think what her attacker was doing to her. You know, because of her dress and makeup and everything…"

"Looks like attempted rape, sir," said Buck briskly, and Sherlock gasped, feigning shock. "But I'm sure she'll be fine. She's just got a bit of a nasty knock to the face, but that will heal.

They sat in silence until Buck pulled up in front of the hospital and got out, opening the back door and going to get Lucie out.

"Oh, I didn't know what to do!" Sherlock said, raising the pitch of his voice a few notches. "I thought I'd lost her…and I can't imagine life without her." He prayed that Lucie had noted the trigger phrase, and his hope was confirmed when Lucie let out a small cough and flitted her eyes open slowly. He inwardly congratulated her on an extremely convincing performance, and Buck's eyes widened when he saw the young woman apparently regaining consciousness.

"Er…we need to get her inside!" he said frantically, not feeling entirely in control of the situation. Sherlock nodded vigorously and scooped Lucie up, who was now looking around her with bleary eyes, playing her role for all she was worth.

Ten minutes later, Lucie was lying in a hospital bed talking to a gaggle of nurses and police inspectors. Again, Sherlock noticed what a good actress she was – not overacting at all, but being polite to all of them but still seeming a little slow from her apparent 'ordeal'. Sherlock sat at her side, her hand in his, still engrossed in the part of the devoted boyfriend and stealing the occasional worried and proud glance at his 'girlfriend'.

"I don't know what would have happened if it hadn't been for Sam," Lucie was explaining. Clever girl – she had noticed the name changes, thought Sherlock. One of the nurses turned to him and gave him a kind smile.

"Mr Underhill," she said. "You must be exhausted. Why don't you pop to the canteen and get yourself a coffee? It might help you to feel a bit better. We just need to talk to Estella for a little while."

This was what Sherlock had been waiting for. Here was his chance to escape for twenty minutes or so down to see Molly. He nodded at the older lady shakily and gave her a weak smile.

"Thank you," he said. "I think that would do me good. Don't hesitate to come and find me if anything happens." He turned to Lucie. "I won't be long, darling. I'll be back soon." He kissed her forehead and was pleased to see that Lucie didn't even flinch.

"Okay," she said. "Don't worry about me, Sam. I'm fine, honestly." She smiled at him and he made his quick exit, leaving Lucie alone with the nurses, relishing the opportunity to play her role even harder.

* * *

**Just to re-emphasize – this is a John/Lucie fic, and **_**not **_**a Sherlock/Lucie one! But that doesn't mean that Sherlock and Lucie still can't be close mates! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I would love some reviews, por favor! Thank you for reading, following and favouriting! :)**


	10. The Exciting Clarity

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews last chapter, and especially to my guest reviewers! I cannot PM you, but I hope you're reading this and can accept my thanks and messages!**

**Sherlockfan: I'm glad that you are enjoying the story! And yes, Jucie will be around soon (John/Lucie!)! Thanks for dropping me a review :)**

**Rebecca: Thanks for your review, and I'm very glad you're a fan! Thanks for reading my other stories too…and wow, another Phan! Yay! Dammit, I want family who work in the West End too! It's not fair! :)**

**Anyway, so I dedicate this chappie to Rebecca for finding a soulmate in Sherlock/Phantom love! :)**

* * *

**10: The Exciting Clarity**

Sherlock strode to the stairs quickly and rapidly skipped down them, narrowly avoiding knocking over various elderly people en route. Before long he reached the morgue and spotted Molly in the corner, poring over a microscope. A small smile played on Sherlock's lips, and the temptation to make her jump out of her skin was too tempting.

He crept up behind the unsuspecting pathologist and cleared his throat loudly; Molly jumped almost out of her skin and leaped around, staring into the laughing eyes of Sherlock. Composing herself, she tried to appear indifferent and calm her flaming cheeks, although Sherlock had already noted and analysed everything about her appearance.

"No lipstick today, Molly?" he said, raising an eyebrow and taking in her dishevelled hair at the same time. "And I would say that you haven't even straightened your hair this morning. What has gotten into you?" He peered down the microscope eyepieces and studied the blood smear methodically. Molly, meanwhile, was trying not to blush again and desperately flattening her hair down so that it looked mildly more presentable.

"Don't bother," Sherlock said, not looking up. "I think it looks fine."

Molly's hands froze a few centimetres from her head before she clasped them together behind her back, trying to be rational.

"What can I do for you, Mr Holmes?" she said, and Sherlock looked up at her, perplexed for once.

"Ah, so now we are being formal again, Miss Hooper?" he said with a tinge of sarcasm. "I can't think why." He went back to looking at the microscope, and Molly sighed.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" she tried again, and Sherlock looked up with a smile.

"That's the Molly I know!" he said enthusiastically, twirling on the spot. "I need to see any bodies that have come in over the last week. It would be a man, in his fifties, shot…any takers?"

Molly thought for a moment.

"I think there was one man who came in a few days ago," she said. "Bullet wound clear through the heart, I think."

"Excellent!" said Sherlock, clapping his hands. "I need to see him!"

Molly led him through to where the corpses lay on their cold steel trolleys and searched until she found the right man.

"Here," she said, gesturing to the body. "A Mr Stuart Adler brought in on Thursday evening with a bullet wound straight through his heart." She pulled the cover down from the man's head ever so slightly to show Sherlock the wound in his chest. Sherlock studied him for a moment, not really listening to the name that Molly had given him.

"So, his face has these marks on," he said, tracing thin scars with his little finger. "Where would they come from? In theory, they look like scars, but if some sort of torture instrument like a whip was used…cat o' nine tails, let's say…then the damage would be much worse but wouldn't look like a big deal. If he was murdered, as we know he was, then it's easy to tell that he was tortured before his death; held in a small, enclosed space with his captor and torturer, no way of escaping the abuse. What did you say his name was?" Sherlock asked absentmindedly, running his fingers lightly over the dead man's face and shoulders.

"Stuart Adler," Molly said, and Sherlock stood up like a shot, his eyes searching Molly's face. He grabbed the sides of her face and Molly tried not to blush.

"Adler?" he said urgently. "You said his name was Adler?"

"Y…yes…" Molly stammered, trying not to concentrate on Sherlock's hands pressing against her face. "Mr…Adler."

Sherlock released her and began pacing the room.

"Adler, Adler…" he muttered, bringing his fingertips together. "I know an Adler…Molly, who is the only Adler that we know?" he barked at her, snapping his fingers and pointing at her. Molly had to think for a moment.

"That…woman from before…who died…but then she didn't…you recognised her from…not her face…" she said, trying to remember everything about her; unfortunately, the only thing she could recall was the shock that came from seeing Sherlock recognise somebody from their body.

"Exactly!" Sherlock said excitedly, beginning to hop from foot to foot.

Molly was still completely in the dark, but decided to wait for him to explain in his own time.

"Adler!" he said. "Adler isn't a common surname…Molly, I need a computer. Now, s'il vous plaît." He looked at her expectantly, and Molly sighed. Honestly, sometimes it was like catering for a toddler. She led him into the next room and logged on for him, loading up the familiar page of the search engine for citizens.

Sherlock sat down quickly at the chair and typed in the word 'Adler' to the surname box, clicked 'Enter' and waited impatiently, tapping his fingers together.

"It's not loading, Molly," he said petulantly. "I want it to load."

"It will load, Sherlock," she said, as if talking to a toddler. "You just need to give it time to warm up."

Sherlock groaned and looked at his watch. Then he looked at the clock on the wall, the clock on the computer, and then back to his watch. The computer finally beeped to let him know that it had finished searching, and he scanned the data quickly, his eyes lighting up and a triumphant smile spreading across his face.

"There!" he said, pointing at the screen. "Mr Stuart Adler – now deceased. Mrs Camilla Adler, spouse – died in 1992. Miss Irene Adler, daughter – also apparently deceased, although that's a load of rubbish. And look!" he said triumphantly, turning to Molly. She bent down to look at the screen, seeing a picture of a young woman looking back at her. She had soft auburn curls and blue eyes, and a heart-shaped face.

"She's beautiful," Molly said bitterly, fingering her own lank hair. "So?"

"Read what it says!" Sherlock barked, still hopping around from excitement. Molly leaned closer to read the profile next to the picture.

"Name: Miss Lucie Adler," she read. "Relation: Daughter. Age: 32. Current Residence: Unknown." She leant back. "Irene Adler is her sister?" she said, in shock. Sherlock clapped his hands together.

"It would appear so. But that can wait. Her surname is Adler, and not Ellery!"

"What's that got to do with anything?" said Molly, totally confused.

"'What's this got to do with anything?!'" Sherlock said incredulously. "This is one of the most vital pieces of information that we've come across yet! This girl…this woman is the very person lying upstairs in a hospital bed."

Molly looked confused.

"Why is she in a hospital bed?" she asked, and Sherlock let out a frustrated huff.

"Well, she's perfectly fine but she was my ticket down to the morgue so that I could see you, see the body and find out what I could about Lucie!" He was waving his hands around frantically, but Molly was just looking more and more perplexed. "She is the very person who turned up on our doorstep two nights ago, and who John brought up when she had been drugged! But why is she going by a different name?" He brought his palms together and thought long and hard.

Molly said nothing, thinking it best not to interrupt the consulting detective's thought process. Besides, it wouldn't do much good; she would probably only end up being shouted at. She folded her hands behind her back and rocked back and forth onto the balls of her feet, waiting.

"Molly, I need you to type a name into that computer for me," Sherlock said, his back to her. She quickly scooted over to the monitor and waited, her hands hovering over the keyboard. "Open a new tab," he ordered, which she did. "Now, I want you to type the name 'Lucie Ellery' into the database. L-U-C-I-E-E-L-L-E-R-Y," he spelt out, and Molly obediently followed his instructions, tapping her thumbs against the mouse while she waited for the system to load. Sherlock slammed a hand over hers, forcing her to stop but also succeeding in securing a hearty blush from her, which Sherlock noted and smirked.

He knew exactly why she wasn't wearing any lipstick, and why her hair was unkempt. He hadn't been down to the morgue for quite a while, and she wasn't expecting to see him. If he had phoned to announce his visit earlier, he had no doubt that her hair would have been perfectly straightened and her lipstick expertly applied, but he had made no such announcement. Therefore, the only logical deduction was that she only really bothered to go the extra mile with her appearance when she knew that he was going to be there. As to why she would want to look nice for him, he had absolutely no idea, but it was a rather amusing phenomenon to observe.

"Here, Sherlock," Molly said, pointing to the screen. "Lucie Ellery."

Sherlock leaned in close to the monitor, trying to process what he was seeing.

"Well, Miss Lucie…" he said quietly. "I do believe there is rather large piece of your jigsaw slid into place."

* * *

John was still sat in front of the TV when the doorbell to 221B rang. At the same time, his phone vibrated, and he picked it up to see a message from Irene.

I'm outside.  
- IA xx

Quickly flicking the television off, John cleared his mug into the kitchen and made sure the room looked mildly presentable before heading down the stairs, key in hand. He opened the door to see Irene standing there, chocolates in hand. She smiled when he opened the door, and he could see that the flirtatious dominatrix was probably not going to put in much of an appearance this time…he was glad. He hoped that Irene wouldn't stay too long and that she would simply tell him what she needed to, and then leave.

"John," she said in greeting, smiling.

"Miss Adler," he replied, inclining his head and opening the door for her to make her way up the stairs to the flat. He followed a few seconds later after locking the door securely, smoothing his hair down in the glass of Mrs Hudson's door and adjusting his shirt collar.

"You look more than presentable, Dr Watson," called a voice from above, and John looked up to see Irene stood there with an amused smirk on her face. "We need to talk."

John cleared his throat nervously, smoothed his palms on the sides of his jeans and walked up the stairs, trying to look more confident than he felt.

Irene was stood in the middle of the flat, looking around at the various items strewn about. Her eyes wandered with amusement to the mauled Cluedo board, but she said nothing.

"Please, sit down, Miss Adler," John said, making a gesture with his hands that was far too dramatic. He cringed inwardly; why couldn't he just act normally for once? Irene wasn't going to bite him. He thought for a moment. Oh dear, wrong choice of words. He shook his head to clear his mind of these unpleasant thoughts to see Irene watching him like a hawk from her new perch on the sofa. He sat down gingerly at the other end and then shot back up again.

"Coffee? Tea?" he asked, again chiding himself for acting so stupidly. Irene merely looked unfazed.

"Tea would be lovely," she said, and John made his way out into the kitchen, more than a little surprised and unnerved when she followed him.

He set about boiling the kettle and finding the one china teacup that they owned – a Christmas present from Mrs Hudson, busily rearranging the mugs in the cupboard so that he wouldn't have to turn around and look at or talk to Irene. She leant against the worktop, looking amused.

"John…" she said softly, and he turned round to her involuntarily. "What I have to tell you may come as a shock, so I would like you merely to drop all formalities from here. There is no point pretending to be formal when I think that we may be becoming better acquainted."

John gulped.

"Look, Miss…" he began, but Irene interrupted.

"Irene," she said, and he reluctantly continued.

"Irene…" he said. "I'm very flattered by your attention, but…you know…I'm not sure that I could really see us being friends as of yet, let alone…more than…I mean…" he stammered over his words, but Irene stood there, an expression somewhere between shock and hilarity on her face.

"John, you think I came here to ask you out on a date with me?" she said incredulously, and he blushed crimson. "I have something important that you need to know. It concerns Lucie."

John looked up, and she smiled.

"I thought that might get your attention," she said, watching him as he carefully poured her cup of tea. He handed it to her and the two made their way back into the main room, taking their places back on the sofa.

"I am a lot better acquainted with her than you know," Irene began after taking a sip of her tea. "I want things to turn out well for her, although I have not done a very good job of that so far, with her falling into the clutches of Jim Moriarty…and Papa…" she buried her face in her hands momentarily, allowing a few tears to trickle down her cheeks, but quickly pulled herself together. Her voice shook slightly as she spoke. "John…I can't play games with you here. I just need to tell you the truth, straight out."

John leaned forward, his interest piqued and his heartbeat sped up somewhat.

"Lucie Adler, or as you would know her, Lucie Ellery…is my twin sister."

* * *

**A/N: *GASP* Dundundun! I know that this chappie was a little on the short side, but I am unavailable from Friday to Sunday, so I wanted to get an upload done. So here is a huge detail about Lucie's past revealed! As always, reviews are greatly appreciated, por favor, as shown from the feedback on last chapter! I mean, I got reviews, and now look what crazy things happened in this chappie! Anyway, thanks to all who read, favourite and follow, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter! :)**


	11. The Struggled Acceptance

**11: The Struggled Acceptance**

"Well…er…that's a rather…unusual picture, don't you think?" Molly stammered, looking at the picture that appeared on the screen when Sherlock typed in 'Lucie Ellery'.

"Unusual is one way of putting it," he said. "But that's Lucie all right. But of course, the question is…when was this photograph taken?" He turned on his heel and began to pace back and forth, tapping his fingertips.

Molly leaned in to take a closer look at the photograph, cringing as she could see more details. On the right hand side of the picture was the young woman who Molly presumed to be Lucie, her hair curled and styled perfectly, dressed in a flowing midnight blue dress studded with silver thread. She looked beautiful, her make-up expertly applied so that it accentuated her features without swamping them, and her overall image appeared to be the night sky itself, studded with silver stars. Molly couldn't help but wonder at how lovely Lucie looked in the picture, but the one thing that really assured her beauty was her smile, lighting up her face and the whole photograph.

Molly gasped in shock when she looked at the man stood on the left hand side of the photo. She leaned in closer, trying to ensure that she had got the details right…but no, she was certain that it was him. She would know his face anywhere.

"Sherlock…" she said. "The man on the left…it's…"

"…Jim Moriarty," Sherlock finished, whirling around. "I did notice."

Molly turned back to the picture. Moriarty was beaming with pride in it, his arm wound around Lucie's waist and her arm around his shoulders. They looked so happy…Molly could hardly believe it. There was no trace of malice in Moriarty's eyes, merely happiness and joy at some unknown new prospect that Molly did not know about.

"He looks…happy," she said, and Sherlock crossed back over to her, bending down to study the screen more intently.

"Yes…yes, he does," he said, deep in thought. "They both do." Not taking his eyes off the screen, he slid the chair out from underneath the desk and slowly lowered himself onto the seat, the cogs visibly whirring in his brain. He studied the picture closer; he must have missed something. The look in their eyes…it meant more than just a couple out on a date. No, there must be something else…

"There!" Sherlock said excitedly, slamming a fingertip against the computer screen, just over where Lucie's left hand was. "That diamond!"

Molly narrowed her eyes to look more closely, and could indeed make out a sparkling gem that was adorning Lucie's left ring finger.

"A ring," she said stupidly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, a ring," he muttered, shooting Molly a look that said, 'Try not to be quite such an idiot'. "But not just any ring. What kind of ring does that look like to you, Molly?" he asked eagerly.

"Well, it's on the left ring finger," said Molly, folding her hands behind her back. "So something to do with marriage. But there's only one ring, and it looks like it's got some kind of precious stone in it. If it was a wedding ring, it would be a simple band and probably have an engagement ring above it, but this one doesn't. So to me, it looks like an engagement ring."

Sherlock clapped her on the shoulder enthusiastically.

"Well done, Molly!" he said. "Your detective skills are developing most profusely! I would say that you're bang on the money – engagement ring, I should think. So in this picture, judging by the look on their faces, they have just been engaged and are having a picture together. He's in a suit and she is dressed up, so they must be somewhere very fancy for dinner, but they're outside, so it must have some kind of outside space or veranda. And look at the bottom; can you see that sparkling? That looks like the Thames to me, and sure enough, there is the silhouette of Big Ben just to the left of Jim's head. In that case, we need a very posh, high-class restaurant on the banks of the Thames, accommodating veranda space and opening until late – shouldn't be too difficult to find. Bingo." Sherlock quickly did up the top few buttons on his coat and rewound his scarf around his neck. "Goodbye, Molly," he said. "Thank you for your help."

"But, Sherlock…" she called, but he was already gone, streaking out of the door as if all the hounds of hell were after him.

Molly sighed; he seemed to have forgotten that the very woman he had been talking about was now lying upstairs in a hospital bed when there was absolutely nothing wrong with her. Running a hand over her hair, she decided that it was probably left up to her to sort Lucie out and get her back to 221B Baker Street.

She noticed a note left in the pocket of her lab coat:

Her 'name' is Estella Took, if you need to know.

- SH

Sighing again, she realised that Sherlock had left her the job of retrieving Lucie, a.k.a. Estella Took, from the wards.

Heading back to the computer, she was just about to close down the two open windows when she noticed a message typed neatly underneath the picture of Lucie and Jim.

To my dear Sherlock and Molly,

So I see you have found out one of Lucie's little secrets. I do like this picture; she looks so beautiful in it. Of course, I had my fun with her while I could, but these rich Adlers do tend to be so fickle. Ah well, good luck in your hunting, Mr Holmes.

Ever your devoted servant,

J

Molly swallowed, a tide of fear welling up in her throat. Fumbling in the pocket of her lab coat, she brought out her phone and quickly typed a new message to Sherlock.

Sherlock, you missed something: a message left for you by Moriarty. I have taken a picture and attached it.

- MH

She quickly snapped a picture of the computer screen and attached it to the text message, hitting _Send_ as fast as she could. Breathing a sigh of relief, she closed the windows down on the computer, cleared her Internet history and logged off, switching off all the lights and locking up the morgue as she prepared to head back upstairs to retrieve Lucie.

Hanging up her lab coat and smoothing down her hair, she quickly fixed her makeup and walked calmly up the stairs, trying to stop her thumping heart from the magnitude of what she had just seen. Various pathologists and doctors passed her as she made her way up to the wards, and she concentrated on fabricating her story as best she could, repeating over and over in her mind before spotting a friendly-looking nurse.

"Excuse me?" she said timidly, and the nurse turned to her, giving her a friendly smile.

"Yes, dearie?" she said kindly. "How can I help you?"

"I'm looking for a Miss Estella Took," Molly said, her heart pounding in her ears. "She would have come in less than an hour ago. You see, I'm a friend of hers, and the hospital phoned to tell me she was in. I would very much like to take her back to my house, you see…" Molly prayed that this nurse would look kindly on her, and just to her luck, the plump woman smiled.

"Of course, dearie," she said. "She doesn't have any serious injuries anyway, just a small bruise to the face. But there was a boyfriend with her…" She looked down at her clipboard, scanning the entries. "…ah yes, Mr Sam Underhill. Are you with him? He brought her in, but he popped to the canteen to get a coffee. He should be back at any minute."

Molly thought quickly; if that man was the one who brought her in, then that must have been Sherlock.

"Yes," she said. "I saw him in the canteen and he said that he'd been called away on urgent business and that could I please look after Estella for him." She paused. "He said to tell you how sorry he was."

The older woman nodded and fished a pen out of her top pocket.

"Could I just take name, dear?" she asked, and Molly froze momentarily.

"Freya Underhill," she said; if she was linked with Sherlock, it would be better. "I'm his sister."

The nurse nodded and wrote the name down on her clipboard before looking back up at Molly.

"Right this way, Miss Underhill," she said, gesturing for Molly to follow her. They soon arrived at a bed where Lucie was sat up, talking and smiling with the nurses and doctors, although they were looking ready to discharge her.

"Estella!" Molly exclaimed enthusiastically, greeting her apparent best friend in a hug and whispering frantically in her ear. "I'm with Sherlock, here to get you back to 221B. Molly Hooper, but as far as you know, I'm Freya Underhill, your boyfriend's sister and your best friend."

Lucie quickly processed this information and assumed her role, pulling back from this new woman, Molly, and giving her a broad smile.

"I don't think there should be any more problems, Miss Took," said one of the younger doctors. "Only this small mark on your face, but that should disappear in a few days." He gestured to the bruise under Lucie's cheekbones with his index finger, and turned to Molly. "She's perfectly fine to go home with you now, but could you please tell your brother to phone us later, just to let us know how she's getting on? That would be much appreciated, thank you."

Molly nodded.

"Of course," she said, looking down at Lucie who was smiling up at the doctor. She was a very good actress; Molly could certainly give her that. Although the shroud of mystery that surrounded this woman was certainly not lifted any more by what she and Sherlock had found on the computer. If anything, it was merely accentuated.

"Here you are, dearie," smiled a bumbling female nurse, crossing over behind Lucie and undoing the buttons on the back of the hospital gown. I must say, that is a lovely dress that you have on. Where did you get it?" The older woman was just making innocent small talk, but Molly did not miss the hardening of Lucie's face and the tensing of her shoulders as the comment and question was asked about her dress.

"Gift," she replied shortly through gritted teeth, clenching her fists and balling up handfuls of the black material. The nurse looked unaffected and continued to chat, although Lucie's expression did not relax.

"There you are!" she said when she had finished with Lucie's hospital gown and had lifted it off over her head. She took the covers off the bed and Lucie swung her legs over the side, her prominent jaw still set.

"Thank you so much," she said with a beam at all of the doctors – except the nurse who had asked her about her dress, Molly noted. "I'm sure that Sam will phone you later to tell you how I am, although I'm sure I'll be absolutely fine."

"Goodbye, Miss Took," said the young doctor, handing her a small booklet. "I am sure that bruise will go away soon. You're lucky to have such a devoted boyfriend; I'm not sure what would have happened else."

Lucie gave him a smile and fiddled with a lock of her hair.

"Oh yes, I don't know what I would have done without Sam," she said, milking the role for all she was worth. "And Freya here," she continued, threading an arm around Molly's waist. The doctors smiled. "Well, I suppose I will be seeing you! Thank you all so much!" Lucie finished, getting up and rapidly taking off toward the other side of the ward, Molly in tow.

* * *

John leaned forward, certain that his ears must be playing tricks on him.

"I'm sorry, she's…what?" he stammered, but Irene merely gave him a wry smile.

"Oh, you heard right, John," she said numbly. "Lucie Adler is my twin sister. Fraternal twins, of course, and we have had little to do with each other for the last six months. We argued a little while ago, and I took it rather badly, so we just kind of drifted apart. It's quite sad really. But I have always kept an eye on her, and so I knew what happened between her and Jim…" she trailed off, and John's brow furrowed.

"Between her and Jim…Moriarty?" he prompted, and she nodded, wiping away a stray tear from the corner of her eye.

"I can tell I'm going to be here a while," she said with a small smile. "So I might as well start at the beginning."

John folded his arms, preparing himself for the long history of Irene and Lucie Adler.

* * *

There was an awkward silence as Lucie and Molly exited the hospital; the two women stood there looking at each other, not entirely sure what to say.

Before she had even meant to, the inevitable question had slipped out of Molly's mouth.

"So…you and Sherlock…" she said, rubbing the back of her neck. "Together? Not? Friends? Not…friends?"

"I met him about two days ago," Lucie said with a smile. "So there is nothing between us. You have nothing to worry about, Molly." Her eyes twinkled as Molly blushed scarlet.

"Well, Lucie…" Molly began, unsure of whether to call her Adler or Ellery. "Sherlock and I were looking you up on the computer downstairs…"

Lucie's eyes snapped up, immediately on the defensive.

"Anything interesting?" she asked, feigning nonchalance. Molly quickly averted her eyes from Lucie's penetrating stare and adjusted her ponytail.

"No," she said quickly. It was not her job to break it to Lucie that she and Sherlock had found out everything about her, including what was probably one of her biggest secrets.

"Okay," Lucie said, although her eyes were still warily narrowed slightly. "Good." There was an awkward silence before Molly broke it.

"Er…we should probably get you a cab so that you can go back to 221B…"

"Molly, wait," Lucie interrupted. "Can we go and grab a coffee…I'd like to talk to you for a bit."

Molly frowned.

"Why?" she asked, and Lucie smiled.

"Well, you're a friend of Sherlock's, so I'd like to get to know you a bit better. Is that okay?" she said, her eyes gleaming. Molly returned her smile.

"Okay," she said. "There's a café just down the road. We can go there if you like."

"Sounds good," replied Lucie, and the two women began to stroll down the road toward where Molly indicated, beginning to chat more easily about Molly herself and how she came to know John and Sherlock.

Unbeknownst to them, a pair of chestnut brown eyes watched their retreating forms from the doorway of a fish and chip shop. A hand quickly noted down in a reporter's pad:

15 April, p.m.  
Entered hospital with SH, he left. Now with MH (pathologist). Still wearing my dress.

* * *

Irene folded her hands in her lap and adjusted the neckline of her dress.

"Where do you want me to start?" she asked, and John shrugged.

"Wherever you think I need to hear from," he replied, and she gave a half smile.

"Okay…here goes. Lucie and I are fraternal twins, and we are both currently thirty-two years old. Our father was Stuart Adler, and our mother was called Camilla – she was Italian. Papa went over to Italy for some business work when he was twenty, and there he met our mother. They courted for three years before Mama got pregnant, but Papa had to come home to England. Mama's family were livid with her and demanded that she go to find the man whose child (or children) she was carrying, so that's what she was forced to do. She had our Papa's address, and so, after various complications that I won't go into, she managed to board a plane and fly over here, to England, where she found Papa at the address he had given her. Luckily for her, he was still besotted with the Italian beauty he had had to leave behind, and gladly took her in. A couple of months later, before she was beginning to show, they were married, and then a few months later again, Lucie and I were born. Mama never went back to Italy; her family shunned her for being pregnant with an Englishman's child. Well, that's the first part of our history, at least." Irene took a deep breath and John didn't take his gaze from her, intrigued by her story. "Do you want me to carry on?"

"If you are okay with that," John said kindly. "Don't tell me anything you don't want to."

"Well, now I had better tell you about my father's business," she resumed. "He ran a very successful theatre company in London, and Lucie and I were always brought up around a stage. From when we were very young, we were always playing around backstage, messing around with the coloured lights and tiny microphones that the performers wear, and Mama and Papa always encouraged us. It was their dream that one day we would grow up to become big stars of musical theatre: the two Adler women performing in their own father's organisation.

"So we weren't trained as such, but we became firm friends with most of the actors and actresses who were performing around that time, particularly the younger ones who were about our age and we virtually grew up with. Those times were wonderful; it was like having an extended family with all of the performers we knew. When we got to be about nine, there was this young man who joined the company who was fourteen at the time, and we both had the most enormous crush on him. He was called…and this may come as a shock to you, John…he was called…"

"Jim Moriarty," John finished, and she nodded.

"Yes," she said. "He was only there for a few weeks on work experience, but he was always very charming to us, and we used to argue about which one of us he would grow up and marry." She smiled at the memory, a few tears running down her cheeks. "But of course, he left, and we didn't see him again for many years. But we soon forgot about him, and as we grew older Papa gave us bigger and bigger roles backstage and eventually front of house too.

"To begin with, we would just go out during the intermission to sell ice creams and cups of coffee, but when we were both fifteen, he told us that it was time we both started to act and sing. And so we did. Lucie was always the more skilled at the musical side – she has the most beautiful soprano voice, and so she rose up the listings much faster than I did. Although I was usually part of the dance group, I did secure some major roles too, usually mothers or kindly characters because of my voice. Not that I ever minded; we were so close as teenagers that neither of us would ever be jealous of the other. As far as my parents were concerned, we were both stars. They were wonderful in that they never showed any favouritism.

"And so it went on for the next ten years or so: our parents' dream came true in seeing us rise to stardom on the musical stage. We lived in a mansion because of the success of my Papa's business, and had everything we could wish for. In 1992, our mother contracted breast cancer and died a few months afterwards, which was a complete tragedy. Lucie and I found it easier to cope with than Papa, but the three of us merely threw ourselves into the theatre to block it all out, and it made her death significantly easier to accept. Of course, being well known like we were, we attracted many admirers, but our parents were always very strict with who we stepped out with.

"Until Lucie met Jim Moriarty again. Papa really liked him, and encouraged Lucie to go out with him; it wasn't long before they were engaged in a proper relationship. I wish I could say that something never felt right about Jim, but I can't. He was a charming young man, a great boyfriend to Lucie and a good friend to Papa and I. He was always there after Mama's death, and he became increasingly accepted into our family.

"Two years ago, Jim proposed to Lucie."

John raised his eyebrows; this was a completely different side to the heartless Moriarty that he knew.

"She accepted, of course, and they were the happiest couple I have ever seen." Irene drew her purse out of her handbag and brought out a small photograph, showing it to John. Unbeknownst to them, it was the very same picture that Sherlock and Molly had seen earlier at the morgue.

"Moriarty just looks so…human," John remarked, and Irene smiled sadly.

"Yes…" she said wistfully. "Yes, he does…"

* * *

**Dundundun! I'm sorry to leave all you guys on a cliffhanger (…well, I'm not really sorry…), but please review! Obviously, these few chapters are vital in finding out Lucie's family history, with a lot of help from her twinnie Irene! Again, reviews por favor! I really do love them! Thanks for reading! :)**


	12. The Bistro Escapade

**Okay, so I am back! I thank you all for your patience (I had a great week, by the way), and thanks for popping by again – I hope that everyone is finding the story to their liking!**

* * *

**12: The Bistro Escapade**

John leaned back in his armchair, tapping his fingertips together absentmindedly as he tried to digest what Irene was telling him. She smiled despite everything.

"You look like Sherlock when you do that," she said with a small grin, and John checked himself halfway through bringing his fingertips up to his chin. He smiled back and sat on his hands, still trying to process the incredible story of the Adlers and how Lucie came to be involved with Jim Moriarty.

"Irene…you don't have to tell me any more if you don't want to. If you don't feel comfortable or whatever."

"John, I have to tell you everything now. I've started our story, haven't I? I need to finish. Besides, it's nice to be able to tell someone all of this…I've never really been able to."

John nodded and took a long breath in, preparing for more of Irene's story.

"So yes, Jim and Lucie were engaged to be married, and the preparations went ahead perfectly. It was all arranged; they would marry in the June, when they had been engaged the previous September. Everything was going swimmingly…until Jim started to make his advances to me. At first, he was always very charming, but then he became more aggressive towards me, and it happened more often. Of course, he was always the perfect fiancé with Lucie and Papa, but he acted completely differently towards me. This went on for a good few months until, one day…" Irene paused and took a few deep breaths.

"We can stop there if you want," John said gently, not wanting to push her too far in case she cracked. However, Irene shook her head and wiped away a few determined tears.

"No…" she said. "You need to know it all. One day…he tried to force himself on me. Of course, I screamed the place down, and Lucie was just outside and came running. But of course, as soon as she was there, Jim acted as the perfect fiancé as usual, and tried to make it out that I had been making advances on him ever since the two became engaged. I protested with all my might, and I'm still not entirely sure which of the two of us Lucie believed. At any rate, the engagement was called off once our father found out, and Jim slowly but surely made his way out of our lives. But the damage that he had done didn't disappear so quickly; Lucie became very distant and suspicious of me…although I was no better at trying to mend our relationship. Neither of us batted an eyelid when I said that I was going away for a while – to my house on the other side of London, where I first met you and Sherlock – and that was the last time that we were really in contact. The last thing I heard about her was a couple of weeks ago, when I had a call from Jim to tell me that he had captured Lucie and Papa…but I couldn't do anything to help them. And now…Lucie is with you, and Papa is dead." Tears built up behind her eyes, hot and furious, but she kept them under control with a long gulp of air.

"Right…" said John slowly, his brain still about ten minutes behind the story that he was hearing. "Well…thank you for telling me all this, Miss Adler."

Irene raised an eyebrow and he quickly checked himself.

"…Irene," he corrected. "So…Sherlock doesn't know any of this?"

"Not as far as I know," said Irene, taking a sip from her cup. "At least, I haven't told him. Not that that means he won't know, I suppose. I take it that you will be relishing the opportunity to hold knowledge over him?"

"To be honest, it wouldn't be the first time in a few days," John smirked, and Irene let out a small laugh. "But at least this solves quite a lot of Lucie's mystery."

"Really?" said Irene sceptically. "I've told you our family history, but that doesn't tell us anything about what will happen next. I highly doubt that Jim will let Lucie go quite as easily as that. No, I am about 100% certain that he is creeping around London and keeping an eye on you, Sherlock and Lucie. And now that he's seen us together, probably me as well."

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair and felt around the edges of his phone, remembering the earlier text messages. Irene sighed.

"He's texted you already, hasn't he?" she said despairingly, and John nodded. She buried her head in her hands and fisted up handfuls of her previously perfectly styled hair, giving John fresh reason to marvel at the change in the dominatrix he knew her as.

He drew his phone out of his pocket and handed it to her, showing the texts he had received earlier that day, not even omitting the one that said, 'I know you like her'. Irene quickly looked at them all and stood up.

"John…I will do everything I can to help you. She is my sister. But…I don't think there is much I can do at the moment. I can ask around all of my connections to find out what I can about the current location of Jim, and then let you know in a couple of days. Is that okay?"

John nodded and put his phone back in his pocket.

"Sounds good," he said. "And Irene…thanks again for telling me everything. Sherlock and I will do what I can."

She looked at him for a moment longer before turning on her heel, buttoning her coat and heading downstairs. After a few seconds, John heard the bang of the door and turned back around, sinking into his armchair with a long sigh.

His head was struggling to take in all of Lucie's history, and he was still reeling from the revelation that her twin was Irene. Clearing the table of Irene's virtually untouched cup of tea, he was just washing it out when he heard his phone go off.

The Waterfront Bistro, Thames west bank. Be there in fifteen.  
- SH

A smile crept onto John's face despite everything. He had a nagging feeling that something big was going to happen down at the Bistro, and his insides jumped from the thrill. After a quick and completely unnecessary 180° turn, John grabbed his coat from the hook and zipped it up. He checked around the flat once more before taking his gun out of 221B's bureau draws and slipping it into his coat pocket.

No Lucie, please.  
- SH

Luckily for John, Lucie was still out with Molly, so he had no need to worry about how to get rid of her.

Could be dangerous.  
- SH

John's smile turned into a wide grin, remembering the first time Sherlock had texted him that: their first case of the pink woman. He almost laughed at how reluctant he was then, compared with now when he was practically bursting with excitement at the prospect of a new case, and with it…new thrills.

Checking around the flat one more time, John quickly ran out the front door, letting it slam behind him, and hailed a cab that he hoped would be relatively fast.

* * *

Fifteen minutes and four seconds later, John stepped inside _The Waterfront Bistro_ to see Sherlock sat casually at a table with his feet up.

"You're late," he said, without taking his eyes off his watch. John checked his own watch to see the four seconds ticking by.

"By four seconds, Sherlock," he said disbelievingly, but Sherlock just raised an eyebrow and gave him a scathing glance, hopping out of his chair and flicking his coat behind him.

"Four seconds or four hours, all the same thing," he said. "I gave you a deadline, Dr Watson, which you appear to have failed to stick to."

"Shut up, Sherlock," John snapped, only half seriously. Sherlock gave a half smile and gave a small twirl.

"You're in a good mood, John," he said. "That's good." He gripped his friend's shoulder and marched him to a table, forcing him to sit down in a chair. "Now," he began, propping his feet up on the table again. "To cut a long story short, we are here because this is the very restaurant in which your dear Lucie and my old mate Jim Moriarty were engaged." He searched John's face for any sign of surprise, but found none. "Engaged, John," he said again, but still John's face remained neutral. He was rather enjoying frustrating Sherlock like this, and was wondering when he should tell him that Irene had already told him everything. The triumphant look on Sherlock's face would be so great to ruin.

"I heard you, Sherlock," he said levelly, struggling not to laugh at the suspicious gaze with which Sherlock fixed him. "Carry on."

"I need to ask the restaurant owner some questions so I can find out as much as possible about what happened. And I have a feeling that things may get interesting, so…some precautions…" He subtly flicked his coat to one side to show John the handle of his gun, and John nodded, responding with a similar gesture to show Sherlock his. Sherlock nodded approvingly. "Good. I see that our past experiences have not been completely wasted on you."

John rolled his eyes, and Sherlock jumped out of his chair.

"What are we actually going to do then, Mr Holmes?" John said sceptically.

"You'll see," replied Sherlock infuriatingly, with a small skip. "Herr Parry?" he called, and a rather short, balding man with a small moustache appeared from the kitchens.

"Ah, Mr Holmes! I see you are now ready to ask me the questions, yah? And please, call me Kristof!" He spoke with a strong German accent, and it took a great deal of self-control on John's part not to either laugh, or salute.

"Indeed, Kristof, I am ready," Sherlock said with a false smile. "I would like the guestbook, please."

"Ah, certainly, certainly!" Kristof said enthusiastically, retreating from the pair seated at the table and muttering about the kind tall man with the long coat. As soon as he was gone, John shot a sidelong look at Sherlock.

"What did you do to make him like you so much?" he asked.

"Not much," Sherlock replied. "Just called him Herr to make him feel important, and didn't mention the war. Simple, really."

John smiled as Kristof reappeared, staggering under the weight of a leather-bound guestbook that seemed to be the same size as him.

"Perfect," Sherlock said with yet another blinding smile, causing Kristof to bow repeatedly and back out of the room.

"He treats you like the queen," said John amusedly, but Sherlock ignored him and was flicking through the pages of the guestbook. A few minutes of awkward waiting followed for John, punctuated only by the sound of Sherlock turning the page. Until, finally, he slammed a finger down on an entry on a particular page.

"Read," he commanded John, and John leant forward.

"'Jim and Lucie,'" he read. "'Here for a dinner that turned into a proposal! Thanks for providing such a great backdrop to an incredible night.' So they were here on the night of their engagement. And that was…" John looked up to the top of the page. "…four months ago, to the day."

"And here's the evidence," said Sherlock triumphantly, shoving the picture of Jim and Lucie under John's nose. "They were here, they were engaged. That's a start. Now all we have to do is work out what happened then…"

"Er…Sherlock…" John started, thinking that now was probably an appropriate time to let Sherlock know about everything Irene had told him.

"Later, John," Sherlock cut him off with a wave of the hand, beginning to pace back and forth and mutter to himself.

"I hate to spoil your fun here…" John tried again to no avail; Sherlock merely completely ignored him.

"…where would a newly engaged couple go?" he was muttering.

"Sherlock!" John yelled. Sherlock looked up and Kristof came bounding into the room and looked indignantly at John.

"You are shouting at Mr Holmes?" he asked with a glower. "You be careful, Mr…"

"Watson," John interjected helpfully, rather amused by Kristof's performance.

"Mr Watson! That is my friend who you are insulting! Watch your mouth!"

"Go away, Kristof," said Sherlock in a bored tone, earning an astonished look from Kristof. The short man began to back out of the room, cursing under his breath and calling down all evil upon the British and their stuck up ways.

"What I am trying to tell you, Sherlock, is that Irene told me everything," John said, relishing the look of disbelief on Sherlock's face – the second time in a few days. He quickly recounted the base of Irene's story and Sherlock took everything in.

"I see…" he said, deep in thought. "Well, in that case…"

There came a sharp rap at the door, and Kristof was out like a shot, although grumbling about 'why can't people read the sign when it blatantly says closed?', and 'I swear, I am going to garrotte any Englishman I see wearing a long coat', etc. Just as he pressed the door handle down, realisation dawned in Sherlock's eyes.

"Kristof, no!" he cried, but it was too late. A gunshot rang out through the abandoned bistro and John turned in horror to see the portly German lying in a pool of his gathering blood.

Sherlock and John quickly drew their revolvers and aimed them at the door, as a man with a well-known face, slicked back hair and a neat black suit strolled through the entrance, not in any hurry.

"Hello, boys!" he exclaimed. "Guess who's come back to play?"

"Jim…Moriarty," John said through gritted teeth, and Jim threw up his hands.

"That's me!"

John pulled the safety trigger on his gun, and Sherlock joined him, but Jim smiled horrifically and shook his head.

"I'm not sure you want to do that, Baker Street boys," he said, grabbing two arms from behind him and dragging two women in front of him. Horror and realisation dawned in the minds of both men as they recognised them as Lucie and Molly.

"Let. Them. Go." John set his jaw and stared in hate at Jim.

"Erm…I suppose that could happen, little Johnny," said Jim with a clown-like frown. "But I just wanted to see how far you would go for your two girlies. Especially this one," he continued, tracing Lucie's jaw with a finger. "She is precious to me. She don't come cheap." He pressed his lips against Lucie's, clamping her face with his hand to stop her struggling. As soon as he drew away, Lucie spat vehemently in his face. "You see?" he said, mockingly looking hurt. "So unkind. She broke poor Jimmie's heart. If it weren't for his master plan to frame the twin sister…"

A look of horror crossed Lucie's face as she realised what he was implying.

"You!" she hissed, attempting to slap his face. "You lied to me…all this time I've been without Irene…and it's your fault! If we had still been together…Papa might still be here! You are a monster!" She screamed at him, but Jim merely looked amused. Sherlock and John watched with baited breath, neither of them wanting to move a muscle. Molly stood on Jim's other arm looking terrified, shooting desperate glances at Sherlock, which he did not miss.

"So, Mr Holmes…" Jim continued, turning from Lucie who had turned crimson with rage. "What are you willing to do to save your pathologist?"

Sherlock stared right back at him with his jaw set, and Jim swung round to John.

"And you, Dr Watson?" he spat. "I know you like my Lucie, but in case you forget, she's still _my _fiancée. You're going to have a hard time getting her back. What to do, boys…what to do?"

* * *

**Well, I am currently baking in the ridiculous heatwave, but also celebrating for a one Mr Andy Murray who finally won Wimbledon yesterday! Whoo! Anyway, thanks for reading again, and please, please review. Short, long, lovely, constructive…whatever! See you on the next chappie! :)**


	13. The Devastating Bullet

**A/N: Hey all, I just want to clarify that chapter 12 is now up (a proper chapter and not just an author's note), so if you missed it, you'll probably want to go back and read it. Quite a lot happened in the previous chapter – this chapter won't make an awful lot of sense without it. Thanks!**

* * *

**13: The Devastating Bullet**

The only sound that filled the deserted restaurant after Moriarty's challenge was the sound of John grinding his teeth in anger, and Lucie's shallow, furious breaths. Moriarty stood there with his head slightly tipped to one side and a triumphant smile playing on his lips.

"Well, boys?" he lilted, each of his hands still on Lucie and Molly's arms. Sherlock's eyes flicked between the three in front of him, trying to think of how to get out of this situation. He knew it was hopeless to try and outsmart Jim Moriarty; that simply would not happen. No, getting the two girls released would be more of a physical game.

Lucie stared hard at Sherlock, her gaze seeming to penetrate into his thoughts. She was desperately hoping that he had some kind of plan, and that she would not have to go back to Jim Moriarty. If that happened, she thought she would probably die, or at least kill herself.

"You know, I do think this is rather interesting," said Moriarty, a smile playing on his lips. "It certainly reveals where your true priorities are." He walked over to Sherlock slowly. "I once remember you saying to Lucie's sister, Miss Irene Adler, that in a fire, a person's priorities are revealed; in a fire, a mother would automatically look toward her child. Interestingly, I noticed that the first person you looked for when I came in was your lovely Lucie…not Ms Hooper."

Sherlock gritted his teeth and glared at Moriarty.

"Considering your history with Miss Adler, she was the one who I considered to be most at risk," he muttered, staring Moriarty right in the eye. His gaze pierced through the Irishman, but Moriarty seemed unaffected, merely looking amused and patting Sherlock's shoulder.

"If you say so, Mr Holmes…" he said, drawing out the vowel in Sherlock's name. He crossed over to John. "And you, Dr Watson…it would seem you are doomed to linger forever in Sherlock's shadow."

John swallowed hard and bit his tongue.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said coldly, and Moriarty smiled a long, cruel smile.

"Oh, but you do," he said. "Best friends with Sherlock, the 'consulting detective'. Every girl you meet runs straight to him. Not a thought spared for his army doctor friend, the kind, ordinary man. No, Sherlock's different…exotic. And there you were thinking that Lucie would be different. Terrible shame, really. Not that she would be able to stay with you, anyway. In case you forgot, we were engaged…technically still are. And don't you forget it, Dr Watson." Moriarty was right in John's face, hissing through his teeth, as John resisted the urge to pull the trigger on his gun and blow his brains out.

"Get. Away. From. Me," John spat, slamming a hand on Moriarty's shoulder and pushing him away; Moriarty held up his hands and took a few peaceful steps backwards.

"And you," he continued, standing in front of Molly who stared back at him with a look of mixed venom and terror. "Molly Hooper, the simple pathologist. Too plain to ever catch the eye of the great Mr Holmes. He even told you so – you remember, that Christmas when you all went round to 221B. Oh, don't look so surprised. I see lots of things. But don't forget what he told you that night. I'm sure he meant every word of it."

A few silver tears rolled down Molly's cheeks, and John's heart ached for her. Even Sherlock felt anger at Moriarty for putting such ideas into Molly's head, but it couldn't be unsaid now. Moriarty skipped his way back into the middle of the room; the centre of the four.

"Boys, you have to do something," he said, gloating. "I have two options. One, I could let you have the two girls without any problem. Or two, I could let you have the girls…but at some kind of price. You can't get something for nothing, you know."

Sherlock and John's bewilderment must have showed on their faces, and Moriarty smirked.

"Oh, there was never any question that you can have the girls," he said. "They're not much use to me, and besides…it would ruin my fun for later. I had hoped that this wouldn't be too messy, but the doorman proved rather irritating…" He gestured to the lifeless body of Kristof lying on the floor, and the pool of cold blood surrounding him. "But I wasn't hoping for too much trouble. After all, why would I want the two of you dead? That would spoil all my fun. And besides, I want to give you the two girls to see how things play out. In fact, I might just hand them over now. It would save a lot of time." He looked at Lucie and Molly for a few seconds, contemplating. Sherlock and John's eyes followed his every move, and there was next to no sound.

A slow, cold smile spread across Moriarty's face. Quick as a flash, before any of the four could think, he had whipped out a revolver from the inside pocket of his jacket. Sherlock had no time to react before Moriarty had pressed the barrel against the top of John's right arm and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet hard into John's arm.

Time seemed to slow down. Lucie and Molly could merely watch in horror, tied up as they were, as John let out a hideous cry and clutched his arm, where blood was already beginning to soak through his shirt sleeve. Sherlock was stunned momentarily before bringing his right fist round and smashing it into Moriarty's cheek.

The consulting criminal just smiled and patted John's shoulder.

"There you are!" he said, clapping his hands. "A nice wound should excite things for a few weeks. Then I can see how things are progressing!" He bent down to John's face; John was now almost doubled over in pain. "You'll be fine in a little while, Dr Watson. Although…you of all people should know that. You're a doctor." He gave an evil smirk and tossed a pocket knife over his shoulder to Sherlock. "For the girls' ropes," he said, and took one last look at the scene before casually sauntering out of the restaurant, leaving no trace that he had ever been there…apart from the body of Kristof. Sherlock stared after him before turning his attention to John. Moriarty could wait; John needed urgent medical attention.

First things first, he busied himself with slicing through the bonds holding the girls. As soon as they were free, Lucie and Molly hugged each other, Lucie apologising profusely for everything. She said that if she had never asked Molly to come and have coffee, none of this would have happened. Molly, meanwhile, although looking a little shaken, insisted that it would have happened anyway and Moriarty was biding his time until he could get the two of them together. Sherlock left them for a few seconds, before all three of them turned their attention to John.

Typically for him, he was trying to make it out that it wasn't a big problem, although Sherlock knew otherwise. Moriarty had placed that bullet exactly, so that it wouldn't kill John but would cause him a hell of a lot of pain and blood.

"Lucie! Phone! Now!" Sherlock barked, throwing his mobile to Lucie. She caught it and, quickly catching on to his meaning, dialled 999. The wait while the operator put her through was agonising for all of them, but after a few minutes, she came off the phone with the news that an ambulance was on its way, and so was Lestrade.

Sherlock managed to manoeuvre John so that he was lying on his side on the floor, and held his arm up above him to staunch some of the blood flow. John was gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut to keep himself from screaming out from the pain.

Sherlock gestured to Molly to come and help from the first aid perspective, and Lucie, unsure of what to do, knelt down by John's head and began to talk to him.

"John…please don't pass out," she said with a weak smile, and he let out half a laugh. "Would you like me to do anything?"

John thought about what Irene had said – that Lucie had a wonderfully clear, soprano singing voice, and reckoned he would appreciate something else to focus on.

"Can you sing, please," he said quietly, through gritted teeth. "Your sister…Irene…said you have…a lovely…voice." John was wincing every few words because of the pain.

A brief look of surprise flitted across Lucie's face before she wracked her brain for a song.

"_You were once my one companion,_

_You were all that mattered…_"

Lucie sang the first song that came into her head – "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again" from "The Phantom of the Opera". John endeavoured to concentrate on every word that she sang, taking his mind off the pain coursing down his arm, and was surprised to find that Irene was correct. Lucie really did have a beautiful voice. As she sang, Lucie herself wept for her father; it was the first time she had sung the song since he was killed.

Molly and Sherlock watched the pair carefully, Molly smiling. They also listened to Lucie's voice as they did their best to make a makeshift tourniquet for John, and just as she was finishing, the four heard the sirens of an ambulance pulling up outside, and the sister noise of the police cars.

As Lucie was holding the last note, Lestrade rushed in and gaped at the sight in front of him.

"John!" he cried, in utter shock. "Ambulance? Stretcher in here, now!" He barked out orders and four burly men in fluorescent orange suits ran in and picked John up, carefully so as not to hurt his arm any more than necessary. They ran out of the room and put him in the back of the ambulance, driving it away with sirens wailing.

Lestrade had his men investigating the body of Kristof and eventually covering it with a cloth and taking it away. He busied himself around the crime scene, while Sherlock, Molly and Lucie stayed where they had been. They all seemed to be in a state of shock…even Sherlock was speechless. Lucie still had tears coursing down her face, both for her father and for John.

"You three can go in this car," Lestrade said kindly, a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. At human contact, the consulting detective seemed to snap out of his daze and gave Lestrade his usual, withering look.

"Why would we want to do that?" he said condescendingly, and Lestrade almost smiled at the unchanged nature of his friend. "Molly, Miss Adler and I will follow in a cab. That's my usual custom, Lestrade, you know that. Why must you continue to ask unintelligent questions?"

"Perhaps because your best friend has been shot in the arm and I wanted to get you to him as fast as possible," Lestrade replied, snapping slightly. "But don't mind me. I am just an unintelligent human being, after all."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Molly, Sherlock and Lucie stepped out of the black cab that Sherlock had succeeded in hailing and made their way up to the St Bart's reception. To Lucie, it seemed so cruelly ironic that she herself had been lying in a bed here just a few short hours earlier, under the pretence of being wounded…now John was lying in a bed with a bullet in his arm.

Sherlock showed no signs of emotion as they walked up the stairs; he bounced at his normal gait, coat billowing behind him. In fact, he was trying to keep his worry in check and resisting a serious urge to scream at everything that had happened. Why had Moriarty shot John? He would have been a lot happier if it was him who had taken the bullet. He couldn't cope when people were in crisis. He didn't know what to do; what to say, what not to say, what was insensitive, what made him sound like the cruellest person in the world…the list went on. But he had to keep his outward façade up, if only for the sake of Molly and Lucie. The last thing he wanted was two hysterical women on his hands. Then he really would be completely clueless.

"John Watson is just undergoing a small operation," said the woman at reception. "Just to remove the bullet. Nothing serious. If you go down the corridor and wait in the waiting room, he should be out in a few minutes." She glanced at the party, and her face fell. "I'm very sorry, but I can only allow two to see him. Hospital policy and all that." She looked between the three.

"I'll go," said Lucie quickly. "I'm the newest, and I expect he'd rather see you two than me."

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," snapped Sherlock. "Jim Moriarty on walkabout and all that jazz."

"In that case, I'll go downstairs," said Molly. "I'll still be in the building. Then you two can be here for him when he comes out."

There was a pause before the other two nodded their agreement, and Molly hugged Lucie. She awkwardly patted Sherlock's shoulder before heading down the stairs to the morgue, throwing the pair one last watery smile over her shoulder.

* * *

"So, Mr Watson, you should be good to go home in thirty six hours' time." A kindly older doctor was sat on the edge of John's bed, smiling at him, and Lucie and Sherlock were stood behind. John nodded and shifted ever so slightly, wincing as a jab of pain shot through his arm. Lucie winced with him involuntarily, and Sherlock smirked. "I don't think there's much more we can do to assist you. Rest up, and I'll see you at half past ten for your last set of tablets." He rose, and Sherlock and Lucie moved to one side.

"Thank you, Doctor," John said with a smile. "Until then."

The doctor nodded his goodbye and left, leaving the three alone.

"You two ought to go back to the flat," said John. Sherlock smiled and Lucie looked outraged. "Nothing exciting is going to happen here."

"Excuse me, John, but in case you haven't noticed, you are in a hospital bed with a bullet newly out of your arm. I'm not going anywhere." Lucie sat down on the bed firmly and John smiled. Sherlock shifted from foot to foot at the foot of the bed, feeling awkward and like a spare part for once in his life.

"Sherlock…" John's voice adopted a pleading tone, and Sherlock raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Could you get me a cup of tea?" He tipped his head to one side with a twinkle in his eye, and Sherlock huffed.

"If you insist," he said, although feeling secretly glad to be able to stretch his legs. "Don't do anything stupid. Lucie…don't…do anything." He tapped Lucie once on the shoulder before turning and heading to the canteen.

There was an awkward pause as Lucie looked down at her lap and John looked at the top of her head.

"Thanks for earlier, Lucie," he said gently, and she looked up with a smile. "I mean, for singing."

"It was the least I could do," she replied, folding her fingers over each other and looking at them rather than at John's face. "You were the one with the bullet in your arm."

John laughed, and Lucie looked up at him.

"Well…thanks anyway," he said, and she nodded her acknowledgement. There was another awkward silence.

"John…can I ask you something?" Lucie said timidly; John nodded. "What…what did Moriarty mean when he said you were always in Sherlock's shadow?"

John exhaled slowly. This was going to be very difficult to explain, especially to Lucie who he now found some rather strange feelings developing for. He had seen her fall under Sherlock's spell of difference and unusualness, and so he couldn't exactly tell her that she was now doing exactly what Moriarty had been talking about.

"Nothing really," he said. "Something that happened…a few years ago." He felt guilty for lying, and Lucie narrowed her eyes in suspicion, although did not press the subject further. She resolved to leave the subject for the time being, but was determined to find out the truth in time.

* * *

**A/N: Please review! And don't forget to read chapter 12 if you missed it. Let me know what you think; I have been short of reviews on the last few chapters so don't know if that's because you guys don't like it…just let me know what you think, please! Thanks once again for reading…a little romance developing now! :)**


	14. The Chemical Bonding

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews last chapter! This chappie is a bit shorter, for which I apologise. But enjoy anyway!**

* * *

**14: The Chemical Bonding**

Two weeks after the incident at the restaurant, John was safely discharged from hospital and was back at 221B. Lucie was also still there under John (and also eventually Sherlock's) insistence that she should stay to keep safe from Jim Moriarty. John's arm was slowly but surely recovering, although it was secured in a sling and he couldn't do very much without aggravating it. Sherlock was being his normal self when it came to someone being ill or wounded; pacing around the house not doing a great deal.

Lucie had adopted the role of resident nurse, and was always on hand to get John whatever he needed, be it a cup of tea or an entire meal. She had even taken it upon herself to cook Sherlock meals too, which he begrudgingly ate, not letting on that he was enjoying her treatment very much.

"You're too good to us, Lucie," John remarked one afternoon as Lucie bustled around the flat, dusting and clearing away old mugs and plates.

"This is what I do, John," she said with a smile. "If there's a crisis, I busy myself with whatever needs doing, so I don't freak out and go crazy. It keeps me occupied." She continued to dust the mantelpiece, not even flinching now when she had to dust Sherlock's skull.

John watched her as she disappeared into the kitchen, and smiled as he heard the banging of crockery being washed and put away. Lucie had only done the washing up about an hour ago, and was now using a whole new bowl of water for three mugs. In some ways, she reminded him of his sister, Harry, when they were younger. If John was ever ill, Harry would always have to be rushing around, constantly busy. She never sat still until John was better, and he could see Lucie doing the same. He thought better of trying to convince her otherwise – it never seemed to end well with Harry.

John settled back into his armchair, adjusted his arm so that it was as comfortable as it could be, and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

oOo

After washing and drying all available dishes, Lucie wiped down all the surfaces in the kitchen, making it as spotless as possible, and finally re-entered the living room. She stopped in her tracks and smiled at the sight of John fast asleep in his chair, his head tipped to one side and a peaceful expression on his face.

"Stop your ogling, Miss Adler," said a rich, deep voice behind her, making her jump out of her skin. She whipped around to see Sherlock stood behind her, a smile playing on his face.

"Sherlock!" she said, involuntarily tucking a curl behind her ear and blushing slightly. "You scared me. Where were you?"

"Bedroom," he said shortly. He crossed over to his chair and sank down momentarily, before tipping his head and surveying her. "Miss Adler…are you at all interested in the science of chemistry?"

"Never really had the chance," Lucie replied, thinking. "But I think I probably would be."

Sherlock nodded slowly, watching the side of Lucie's face and contemplating whether or not to allow her into his 'lab'. Eventually, he stood up and took her wrist, dragging her into his room and shutting the door behind them.

Lucie could do little but gaze in awe at the test tubes and beakers arranged with precision on a flat wooden surface laid on top of Sherlock's bed. Many of them contained peculiarly coloured liquids fizzing and bubbling, and rubber tubes connecting them. Sherlock watched Lucie's face in amusement as she took in the sight.

"Goggles," he said, handing her a pair of plastic goggles. "Gloves," he slipped on a pair of disposable rubber gloves and gestured for Lucie to do the same. "Now, let's start with something basic. I'll just fill this bowl with water…" he picked up a wide cylindrical bowl and disappeared out of the door. "Don't touch anything," he said warningly, and Lucie nodded. She watched the test tubes but didn't touch them, until Sherlock returned, staggering under the weight of an almost overflowing bowl.

"Water," he said, and then picked up a small pot and a pair of tweezers. "Magnesium." He picked out a lump of magnesium from the pot, and leant over the water. "Watch closely." He dropped the magnesium onto the water, and Lucie watched in wonder as it caught aflame and fizzed around, before the fire died and the magnesium had vanished. Sherlock watched her reaction with amusement as she blinked a few times, before fixing him with a wide grin.

"What else can you do?" she asked with a smile, and he picked up some more dangerous and colourful chemicals. He continued to show her demonstrations of different chemical reactions and bonding for the best part of an hour, eventually giving her small jobs to do such as dropping pipettes of copper sulphate into liquids, explaining things meticulously all the while. They covered fundamental chemistry, calcium carbonate reactions, plant oils, the reactivity series, and even moved onto physics: convection, conduction and infra-red radiation.

Lucie discovered a love of something she hadn't done since school, and found Sherlock a very pleasant companion during the time. When he was working, he seemed to have a different personality; gone was the cold, hard detective. Instead, he became witty and good fun, seemingly care-free. Although she had initially been drawn to him because of his darkness and exoticism, this fun, light-hearted side to him was just as appealing. The pair laughed and joked as they worked; Sherlock teasing her about her lack of chemistry skills, but finding that he was in fact enjoying her company, much to his surprise.

Sherlock glanced at his watch, and stopped what he was doing.

"I think an hour is enough science for one day, Miss Adler," he said, peeling his rubber gloves off. Lucie frowned at his continued use of a formal name.

"Sherlock…please can you call me Lucie?" she said, and he gave a small nod to show his acquiescence.

"If you insist…Lucie," he tried out the name, and she smiled.

"Thank you," she said quietly, before spinning around. "Do you need some help to clear up?" she said, but Sherlock shook his head.

"If you touch any of my stuff, I will personally kill you, so tidying up after our science sessions would not be a good idea. Just go and see how John is, and I'll do what I can." He shooed her away with a gesture, and she left the room, seeing John still asleep in his chair.

"Lucie?" Sherlock's voice drifted out from his room, followed by his head poking round the doorframe. "If you want, I can teach you some more science each week? I mean, if you'd like that…" He stammered a little, feeling awkward, but Lucie beamed at him.

"That would be great, Sherlock!" she exclaimed, giving him a quick hug on impulse. She pulled away, feeling embarrassed, and her cheeks flamed, but Sherlock merely looked amused.

"Good," he said, retreating back into his bedroom. Lucie watched him leave before slamming a hand into her forehead. How much of an idiot could she be? She was obviously making it no secret to Sherlock that she liked him, but she could at least make it a little more subtle! At least he hadn't responded with a cutting remark, so that was something and had saved her a little of her dignity. She had to stop acting like an idiot whenever Sherlock was around.

Shaking her head to rid herself of these ridiculous thoughts, she grabbed a blanket from John's room and gently laid it over his sleeping form in the chair. Watching his peaceful expression, she smiled. In the couple of weeks she had known him, John had become like a brother to her: always there to help or cheer her up. She missed him when he wasn't there, and genuinely enjoyed his company.

"Thank you, John," she whispered quietly to his sleeping face. She gingerly put a hand on his and looked down. "You're a really great guy. But I don't know what to do about Sherlock. I think I fancy him, but he's…he's Sherlock. You know he's not interested in a relationship of any kind, but I thought…maybe I could be different. When you're better, I hope maybe you could help me with him? You're like my brother, and isn't that what brothers do?" She laughed softly. "Not that I would know. But could you do that for me? I know people say that a girl and a guy can't just be friends, but I think that you and I can. I wouldn't dream of being your girlfriend, but you're the brother I never had. So could you help me with Sherlock? I'd really love him to notice me. Thanks, John." She pressed a gentle, sisterly kiss to John's forehead and retreated into her makeshift bedroom to change her clothes.

As soon as she left, John's eyes snapped open and a few lone tears trickled down his face. He had heard all of Lucie's speech, and was feeling numb from her comments. Of course, he knew he shouldn't feel surprised. Women always used him as a stepping stone to try and get to Sherlock, but he had hoped Lucie would be different. Just this once, he had thought that maybe she could like him back instead of just seeing Sherlock.

But apparently not. Moriarty was right. He was doomed to always be in Sherlock's shadow; the only way he would get out of that rut was by leaving Sherlock, which wasn't going to happen. He angrily brushed away the few tears that had run down his face, although they were quickly replaced by more. Discarding the blanket Lucie had meticulously placed over him, he got his phone out of his pocket and texted the one person he could think of.

Hi Irene, I know this is odd, but can I talk to you? Can I meet you outside St Bart's in twenty minutes? Thanks.  
- JW

Before he could change his mind, he pressed _Send_ and watched the message load as it made its way to Irene Adler's phone. In the one scenario where he was having a problem with an Adler, it seemed peculiar to be turning to the other Adler sister, but he didn't see much alternative. His phone beeped back a reply.

No problem, John. See you there.  
- IA xx

"Going out," John mumbled as he grabbed his coat and key, and slammed the door behind him.

oOo

Irene was waiting outside the hospital for a few minutes before John arrived, still with his arm in a sling. She still had her car with her, and as soon as John got out of his cab, she nodded towards her car.

"Come on," she said with a smile. "If you've got something really important to say, it's probably better said in my flat. That way, there won't be any unkind ears to overhear us."

John nodded and followed her into her car. It seemed bizarre that just a month ago, if Irene Adler had invited him into her car and back to her flat, there was no way on earth he would have gone. But now, he was asking to meet her and was glad for the privacy of her flat.

Most of the journey took place in silence, Irene fiddling with the ring on her right ring finger, and John just looking at his knees, lost in thought and occasionally wincing at his arm when the car went over a speed bump. When they arrived, Irene got out first and helped him out, trying not to hurt his arm, and together they made their way into Irene's flat.

"Tea? Or something stronger?" she inquired politely, when they were sat opposite each other in her living room.

"Something stronger wouldn't go amiss," John muttered, adjusting his arm so it caused him minimal pain. Irene nodded and gestured to Kate to fetch their drinks.

"So, John," she said with a kindly smile. "How may I help you?"

* * *

**A/N: Okay, so this was a bit of an angsty chapter, and I'm sorry it was shorter. But I thought I'd rather end it here…plus I'm a bit short on time. For this chappie…please could you give me just five reviews? Just short ones will do, and they don't have to be on this chappie. Just let me know how you're enjoying (or not) the story…please? Without feedback, I'm not really sure where I stand, so five would be my goal. Could you do me that favour – click the "Post Review" button for me? Thanks! :)**


	15. The Inevitable Outpouring

**Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter, and all those who follow and favourite :)**

* * *

**15: The Inevitable Outpouring**

John fiddled with the cuff of his shirt, unsure of where to begin. He had enlisted the help of Lucie's twin, but now that she was actually here in front of him, he found it difficult to know what to say. Irene watched the top of his head with concerned eyes, feeling pretty certain she knew what John had come to talk to her about. After a few minutes of silence, Irene sighed and spoke.

"Let me guess," she said. "You're here to speak to me about my sister." She watched as John ran a hand through his hair, confirming her suspicions wordlessly.

"She asked me if I could help her get off with Sherlock," he responded monotonously, not looking at Irene's face. "She wants me to be her brother, but told me she would never dream of wanting to be my girlfriend. So because I'm her 'brother', she wants my help to get her into Sherlock's heart, because 'that's what brothers do'."

Irene was left to digest this information and survey John's expression for a few seconds before Kate re-entered, bearing a silver tray complete with a decanter of whiskey and two shot glasses. A bowl of chocolates completed the ensemble. Irene gestured to Kate to put the tray down on the coffee table, before indicating for her to leave. She turned back to John, whose expression was now morphing from hurt to pure anger and back again.

"I can't do it, Irene," he said through gritted teeth. "I can't willingly set her up with Sherlock. Not that it would ever work anyway; for one thing, Sherlock is _not _interested in a relationship. I should know: he told me when we first met. For another, she doesn't _know _what Sherlock is like! I've _lived_ with him, for crying out loud, for the best part of five years, and he still does things to surprise _me_. And I can't physically set them up! Just this once, I want a girl to notice _me_, not Sherlock, _me_. I'll be lovely to her, whatever, I'll even cook her dinner, but I can't. Do. This." John's expression morphed into one of utter pain and anger, and Irene's heart swelled.

"Then don't," she said quietly. "Why should you? Remember, John, only you are in control of what you do. Not Sherlock, not my sister, not anybody. If you don't want to throw Lucie into Sherlock's arms (and believe me, I think you're very wise not to), don't let her convince you otherwise. Sure, she might be angry, but that will blow over. If, by some fluke, you went against all your convictions and threw her at him, and they became an item, you would have heartbreak every day for who knows how long. I know my sister; she'll come round. And John, don't think your chances with her are hopeless. The way she's been treating you for the past few weeks, I wouldn't be surprised if something clicked in her head one day, and you became more than the short assistant with the broken arm."

"Cheers," muttered John, and she smirked. "I just can't _do_ anything," he growled, gesturing to his arm. "I'm an invalid, but the longer I'm stuck in the flat, she'll think of me more and more like a brother…which isn't what I want."

"If it's any help, you have my full permission to hurl that whiskey glass at that back wall," said Irene casually, and John looked up, a small smile on his face. "It's a wonderful way to take out your anger. I've smashed larger things against it than a shot glass. Go ahead." She handed him one of the glasses, and John rose slowly. He drew back the whiskey glass, and paused just short of releasing it.

"Can I scream too?" he asked with a grin, and Irene nodded eagerly.

Using all his strength in his good arm, John hurled the glass at the back wall of Irene's living room and let out a long, animal and frustrated cry. The glass shattered with a satisfying noise on the wall, and when all the shards of crystal had fallen to the ground, John sank back onto the sofa, a grin playing on his lips. Irene was smiling too.

"Most satisfying," John said. "Not that it resolves the problem. Irene…I came to you because I wanted to talk to someone, but I was hoping you could give me some advice. She's your sister; I was hoping you'd be able to give me some pointers."

Irene sighed and tucked a chestnut strand of hair behind her ear. Reaching up to the back of her head where a perfectly styled updo sat, she slowly and thoughtfully began to pull pins out of her hair, letting it tumble out of its restraints around her shoulders. John watched her with interest, but she was pleased to see no hint of longing in his eyes. From his confession today, she could tell that his interest in her sister was genuine, with no unwholesome objectives; he just wanted a woman to love him. It broke her heart to see him in this situation, and she was angry with Lucie for being so insensitive, although she knew it would not have been intentional.

When all her hair was free, she leant forward, cupped her chin in her hands and looked directly into John's eyes.

"John…" she said slowly. "When my sister gets like this, it's hard to know what to do, even for me. Just be yourself. Don't do what she asks you, no matter how much she pesters, and stick to your views, not hers. Beware of the Adler persuasiveness: it runs in the family, you know." The corner of her mouth crept up in a teasing smirk, and John snorted. "But I think you should go back to the flat. For one thing, the longer you stay out, the angrier you'll be when you go back. For another, the other two will be worried about you. And three, you do actually need to be resting. But remember John: I'm always here. If you need a chat, or another glass to chuck at the wall, just give me a text, and we can arrange something."

"Thank you, Irene," John said, his face falling somewhat at the prospect of having to return to Lucie. He rose to leave, wincing at his arm, and she mirrored him, leading the way to her front door.

"Oh, and one more thing," she said, just as John was turning to leave. "Don't take it out on Sherlock. It's not his fault my sister's melted at his feet. I don't expect he'll be too fond of it." Her eyes twinkled as she opened the door.

The pair stood awkwardly for a few seconds before Irene gathered John into a tight hug; a hug between siblings.

"Thanks for coming to me, John," she said with a smile, which he returned.

"Thank you for your help," he replied, "goodbye." He turned and walked down the steps, turning and waving to Irene, framed in the doorway, before turning around the corner and out of her line of sight.

oOo

When John returned to 221B less than twenty minutes later, he trudged up the stairs and unlocked the door to see Sherlock and Lucie sat on the sofa together, thoroughly engrossed in a television programme. It looked like they were filming open heart surgery, and Sherlock was eagerly pointing out different sections on the television and explaining their functions to Lucie.

John felt sick to his stomach. They didn't even care he'd gone. He noticed a pain up his left side, and grabbed his crutch from its spot behind the door, where it sat gathering dust. He limped over towards the door of his bedroom before Sherlock's voice stopped him.

"You're back, then," he said indifferently without turning round. Lucie turned round to face him in shock, a worried smile breaking out on her face.

"John, where did you go?" she exclaimed, rising out of her chair. "Don't do things like that – you scared me!" She laughed and hugged him, but John did not reciprocate, only stiffening.

"Of course I did," he said scathingly, and she looked confused, drawing back. Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Sherlock raise an eyebrow, a look of genuine concern flitting over his face for a second.

"John–" Sherlock began, but John waved him off, a lump forming in his throat. He didn't want Sherlock to be concerned now; he just wanted to go to his room.

"John, let me get you a cup of tea…" Lucie began, laying a hand on his arm.

"Get off," he snapped, not caring if he was being harsh any more. "I don't want to talk to you now." He stormed through the room to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Once inside, he sank down on his bed and buried his head in his hands. He heard Sherlock and Lucie's voices outside; Lucie's sounded choked with tears. Pressing an ear against the door, he could just hear their conversation.

"What did I say to him?" Lucie was saying, her voice thick.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, "but I think he needs a bit of time in the flat on his own. You never got to meet Molly Hooper properly, did you?"

"No," Lucie sniffed.

"In that case, I think we ought to go to St Bart's," Sherlock was saying, and John could hear him picking up his coat and scarf and putting them on. He could hear no movement from Lucie.

"But…John…" she said, and John heard Sherlock make a noise in the back of his throat.

"Don't you see, Lucie?" he was saying impatiently. "He needs some time alone. Us being here doesn't give him that. Now, get your coat on."

John heard her reluctantly put her coat on, and Sherlock picked up a set of keys, unlocking the door and ushering Lucie out, before hesitating himself. John strained his ears to hear what he was doing, but couldn't hear anything. Eventually, he heard the door shut and the key click in the lock, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Cracking open his bedroom door, he slowly made his way over to his armchair and curled up in it like a child, finally letting the sobs he had been holding in all day wrack his body, holding himself and rocking back and forth.

oOo

Mrs Hudson was cheerfully making her way up to the boys' flat, humming. She let herself in and looked around, surprised to see it so deserted, until her eyes rested on the top of John's head in his armchair.

"John?" she said quietly, going over to him. When she reached him, he looked up at her with a tear-stained face, curled up in his chair. "Oh, my dear!" she exclaimed, before thinking for a moment. "It's about that girl, isn't it?" she said in a small voice, and John nodded, a new wave of sobs wracking his body.

Mrs Hudson's heart broke to see John, who she thought of as a son, in such a state. Without thinking, she gathered him up in her arms and he sank to the floor, where she knelt. She held him and rocked him as he cried, his tears soaking her blouse, but she didn't care. She had never seen John like this.

They sat like that – John crying and Mrs Hudson holding and rocking him – for the best part of twenty minutes, until he pulled away and wiped his eyes determinedly.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson," he said shakily, "and thank you."

"Don't worry, dear," she said gently. "You have a good cry. It might seem a whole lot better afterwards."

He gave her a watery smile and curled up again in her arms, more tears streaming down his cheeks. It wasn't until a few hours later, when John had told her everything that Mrs Hudson left 221B, her heart breaking for her virtual son, and feeling determined that he and Lucie would be together.

* * *

**Okay, so another very very **_**very **_**angsty chapter, but it was a filler to show John's outburst. I was pretty much crying myself when I wrote it, but things will be on the up from here on…i.e. some of the ROMANCY STUFF! Ahem.**

**Please review, and I must warn you…I am going away from Friday until next Wednesday, so I doubt I will be able to update in that time. And sorry about the less frequent updates; despite it being holiday, I have less time to write, hence the shorter chapters and less frequent updates. But I will try, my lovely readers! Thanks for stopping by! :)**


	16. The Renewed Spark

**Hi all, I am back! I'm sorry it has been so long between updates but as you probably know, it has been school holidays so not an awful lot of time to update. Hopefully we will be more regular now. So sorry to keep you all waiting! Also, has everyone seen the new Original British Drama trailer with Sherlock in it? I nearly peed! :)**

* * *

**16: The Renewed Spark**

Some hours after Mrs Hudson left 221B, John had recovered somewhat and was curled up in his armchair watching a film. He clutched a cup of tea between his hands to warm them, and was so engrossed in the action on the television screen that he didn't hear the soft click of the door as it was opened and shut. He only noticed anyone was in the flat when a pale, long-fingered hand was placed on his shoulder, making him jump out of his skin and spill some tea onto his arm and curse.

"Hell, Sherlock!" he cried as he turned around to the smirking face of his friend, pausing the film on-screen. "You scared the living daylights out of me!"

Sherlock snorted and slipped his coat and scarf off, hanging them on the back of the door. Subconsciously, John looked around for Lucie's shape, but he couldn't see her.

"Staying with Molly for the night," said Sherlock. "She thought you didn't want to see her, so she's given you some space."

John looked surprised at Sherlock's apparent sensitivity, but the consulting detective quickly set the record straight.

"Her words, not mine," he said, and John nodded and rolled his eyes. "Although…" Sherlock began hesitantly, "you did seem angry with her. Just makes me wonder, that's all." Sherlock sat down in his chair innocently and pulled his knees up to his chin, rapidly changing the subject. "What are you watching? Wait, no. Let me guess."

John sat, slightly stunned at Sherlock's comment, as he listened to him rattling off deductions about what film John was watching. He hadn't thought that even Sherlock would pick up on his feelings. Was it really that obvious? After releasing all his feelings in the way he had done to Mrs Hudson and Irene, his head felt a lot clearer and he began to think more rationally about the situation. Being furious with Lucie wasn't going to do anything except drive her away, which was the last thing he really wanted. He knew that at some point he would be forced to apologise, and in his mind John knew that the sooner he did so, the better and less awkward it would be for them all.

"Am I right?" Sherlock's voice interrupted John's thoughts, and he turned to see his friend's expectant face watching him. "You _are _watching 'The Two Towers' aren't you?"

"Erm…yes, Sherlock…" John said absentmindedly, his mind elsewhere.

"Knew it," said Sherlock smugly. "They've all got the same look, these fantasy/action films. Don't you think?"

"I don't know," John snapped, trying to think but being unable to with Sherlock chattering in his ear. "Sherlock, I need to apologise to Lucie."

Sherlock looked bewildered.

"What?" he said incredulously. "She's only just left."

John bit back a comment and began to talk slowly and patiently; he had forgotten how hopeless Sherlock was when it came to women.

"Sherlock, the longer I leave it before I talk to her, the more awkward it will get. I was horrid to her when she came in earlier, and I need to tell her I'm sorry and make her come back to the flat."

"And is there a problem with snapping at her?" Sherlock said, looking utterly lost. "I do it all the time."

"I know _you _do, Sherlock," John said exasperatedly. "But you're you. I'm not you, and people don't expect me to behave like a psychopath. They expect _you _to behave like one."

"High-functioning sociopath," muttered Sherlock under his breath.

John waved off his comment. "Look, whatever. Professional idiot, I don't care. But my point is, I need to set things right. And leaving her to spend the night away because I've upset her is not really the way to do it. I need to go to Molly's and find her." He rose out of his chair with the aid of his crutch and began to don his coat. Sherlock looked at the crutch cynically, raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Good luck, John," he said quietly, but John didn't hear.

"I'll be back soon, hopefully," John said, exiting the flat and slowly making his way down the stairs.

oOo

"Coffee, Lucie," trilled Molly, handing Lucie a steaming cup of coffee. Lucie gave her a smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Thanks." She took a small sip, contemplating the events of the evening.

"So…" Molly began awkwardly, "do you want to talk about what happened between you and John earlier?"

Lucie let out an exasperated sigh. "I don't know what there is to talk about," she said, frustrated. "I seem to have done something to upset him, although I have no idea what. He didn't seem to want to talk to me when he got back to 221B; he just stormed off to his room. I offered to make him a cup of tea, and gave him a hug…but he didn't want any of it. He told me he didn't want to see me at that moment."

"What were you and Sherlock doing?" asked Molly tactfully.

Lucie's eyes widened. "Nothing indecent Molly, I promise you! Sherlock was showing me a television programme of open heart surgery, and giving me a biology lesson. But John came in (I don't know where he went in the first place) and went straight to his bedroom. I don't know what to do to try and appease him."

"Well…" Molly thought she understood the situation pretty well, but was reluctant to spell it out to her friend. "If you ask me, Lucie…"

"What?" Lucie asked, her eyes widening. "What do you think?"

"Lucie, do you…" Molly stammered, not wanting to offend her friend. "Do you…like…"

"Do I like…?" Lucie prompted.

"…Sherlock," mumbled Molly, intertwining her fingers and looking down at them with a blush of crimson.

Lucie's cheeks responded by turning an equal shade of scarlet. "Er…well…" The two women sat opposite one another, not making eye contact for fear of embarrassment.

"I mean, it's okay if you do…you know…but if you don't…that's okay too…" Molly spoke fast to overcompensate for the silence. "I…I wouldn't blame you…if you did." She grabbed a strand of hair and began examining it rapidly.

Lucie's eyes widened in sudden realisation. "Molly, you mean…? Oh my goodness, I didn't mean to…you know…impose or anything! I didn't realise you…liked him." She thought back to what Sherlock had said to her when they were in the flat together: 'I am married to my work and certainly not interested in a relationship'. She decided not to mention this delicate fact to Molly.

"Oh, I know he doesn't want a girlfriend," sighed Molly with a frown, "but it doesn't stop me liking him. I see him virtually every day where I work so I can't get away from him. But it's just…one thing he said to me…before the fall…" She trailed off and examined her nails.

"What did he say?" Lucie pressed.

"He said…he needed me," Molly stated, blushing. "I know he needed my help in faking his death…but I've always hoped he meant something more than that. I thought he was going to kiss me, that day at the morgue, but he didn't. I don't know what to think." She drew her knees up to her chin and shut her eyes momentarily. "But…do you like him?"

Lucie let out an enormous breath and ran a hand through her curls. "I don't know, Molly, I don't know."

"What about John?"

"I honestly don't know, Molly!" Lucie slammed her forehead against her knees. "I thought I only viewed him as a brother, but over the past few weeks…spending so much time together with him being injured…I seem to be feeling something more…but Molly, I said something stupid."

Molly leant forward. "What? What did you say?"

"Well, he was asleep in his chair at the time, and I asked him to help me get…you know…get together…with Sherlock, because John is like my brother. I told him I would never dream of being his girlfriend, but could he help me with Sherlock. But now…I don't know. I'm not sure I would say I would never dream of being his girlfriend."

"Are you really such an idiot that you can't think why he would barely talk to you?" asked Molly incredulously, stifling a laugh.

Lucie just looked perplexed. "What?"

"It didn't occur to you?"

Lucie looked blank.

"That he was probably awake the whole time you were talking to him?" Molly said.

Lucie gasped and blushed crimson. "You really think so?" she exclaimed.

"Lucie, I can't think of a more obvious reason he would have to be mad at you. My best guess is that he probably likes you, and you saying that about Sherlock just about pushed him over the edge. But did you mean all of it?"

"I don't really know how I feel about John now, Molly," Lucie said honestly, burying her head in her hands. "But I need to apologise to John! I can't believe he heard all that!" She rose from the chair, leaving the mug of coffee abandoned, and looked around for her trademark red mackintosh.

The doorbell rang. Both Lucie and Molly looked at the door before Lucie went to it and looked through the peephole.

"It…it's John," she stammered, looking desperately back at her friend. Molly mimed opening the door.

"John," Lucie said as she opened it, revealing him stood in his black coat; one hand shoved firmly in his pocket and the other behind his back. She managed a weak smile which he returned without meeting her eyes.

"Um…look, Lucie," he began.

"John, I am so unbelievably sorry…" she said at the exact same time. They blinked and looked at each other, and the faintest twinkle came into John's eye.

"Who wants to go first?" he said with half a smile.

"John, I am so sorry for saying everything that I did," Lucie said quickly. "I didn't…I mean, I don't…" She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I asked you for help with Sherlock. I didn't think, and I didn't think I could ever think of you more than a brother…"

John inhaled sharply.

"…but now I'm not sure. When Jim shot you…I was so worried. Maybe…maybe in time…I could think of you as more than…you know…" She played with her belt. "But I'm so, so sorry, John. Can you…can you forgive me?"

"Lucie, I was far more of an idiot that you," John said honestly. "I overreacted ever so slightly." He gave a wry grin. "I shouldn't have been so horrid to you. It's not your fault. I mean, every woman we've ever met…you know…prefers Sherlock, and I don't blame them. So _I'm _the one who should be apologising. _I'm _sorry."

They stood for a moment before engaging in an awkward hug. John rubbed the back of his neck.

"So…did you mean all of what you said? Earlier?" he said.

Lucie smiled gently. "I don't think so," she said softly.

John nodded, a spark of hope flickering in his mind. "So…would you like to think about it some more?"

She nodded. "I think so."

"In that case, perhaps I could take you for dinner tomorrow night? It doesn't have to be a date, but you know…we could talk and get to know each other a bit better. You don't have to if you don't want to; it was only an idea…" John babbled nervously and looked down.

Lucie smiled and slipped a hand in his. "That sounds great, John."

He looked stunned. "Okay," he said, his voice a couple of octaves higher than normal. "Good. Good. That's, um…good. Very good."

Lucie laughed and he grinned.

"In fact, do you want to stay at Molly's for tonight and tomorrow, and I can pick you up tomorrow evening? You don't have to dress up or anything, I expect we'll only go somewhere casual…but whatever. Is that…is that okay?"

"I shall look forward to it, Dr Watson!" Lucie said teasingly, her voice formal. "I suspect Molly will drag me out to buy some clothes tomorrow once she hears about this!"

John laughed, his usual demeanour returning. "Okay, so tomorrow night then," he said slowly, still taking in the belief of what had just happened.

Lucie nodded, squeezing his hand and then releasing it. "I'll see you then." She leant forward and kissed his cheek. "Goodnight, John." She began to close the door but John stopped her.

"Oh, I forgot," he said, "these are for you." He pulled out a large bunch of cream and deep red roses from behind his back and presented them to her. "Just to say, you know…"

Lucie gasped and took them with a huge grin. "John, they're beautiful!" she exclaimed, hugging him again less awkwardly.

"Ow," he said quietly. "Thorn in the face." He grinned and Lucie giggled. There was a silence.

"Well, I suppose I'd better be getting back," John said finally, "before Sherlock or Mrs Hudson send out a search party. Goodbye, Lucie." He smiled once more before turning and walking away, hailing a cab and disappearing round the corner. Lucie stood until it was out of sight before turning around and getting pounced on by Molly. The huge grin all over her face spoke volumes.

"Oh my goodness!" Molly squealed. "You're going on a date with John! We need to buy you a dress!"

Lucie laughed. "I told John that's what you'd say!"

"I know!" Molly exclaimed excitedly, clapping her hands.

Lucie rolled her eyes. "Is there no privacy to have a conversation around here?" she asked exasperatedly, but with a gleam in her eye.

"No!" Molly was jumping from foot to foot with excitement. "And the flowers! He is such a gentleman!"

"Now, Molly," said Lucie with mock severity. "_I'm _the one going to dinner with John, not you! So keep your paws off!"

Molly grinned. "Come back inside!" she said, steering Lucie to the living room by her elbow. "We have so much to do before tomorrow!

* * *

**Aww, so some fluffiness for you all here after the couple of angsty chappies. Like it? Loathe it? Couldn't care less? Please review :)**


	17. Update Note (sorry)

Hi everyone, so I know this sucks because it's been two weeks without an update and maybe you were all thinking "Hey she's updated", but just put it this way:

back at school + lots of exam coursework = head *kapow* + no time to write

So really sorry for the delay, hopefully some progress will be made soon! Please bear with me.


End file.
